


Investigations and Emotions (And Handling Both)

by woolesbeano



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Connor has anxiety bitches, Dad Hank, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Found Family, Friends to family, Gavin Reed Being an Asshole, Hank Anderson's Colorful Language, He's still a fantastic detective but OOH that anxiety, Human!Connor, Hurt/Comfort, I pinky swear he’ll get nicer, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Insecurity, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn but for friendship, Sorry RK900 stans but he’s kind of a dick in this fic, Warning: Hank is an absolute asshole in the beginning of the fic, android!hank, more tags will be added as story progresses, reverse au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23856292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woolesbeano/pseuds/woolesbeano
Summary: RK800 Hank has been activated for three months, and he’s already sick of working with humans. The only thing they ever do is get in the way of his job. On the first day of being partnered with Lieutenant Connor Anderson on the deviancy investigation Hank decides he will hate every second of working with the man.Instead, something worse happens. He actually starts caring. Fuck.(Generally follows timeline of the game but deviates significantly as it progresses)
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 59
Kudos: 254





	1. Partners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some details about the certain crime scenes and other settings will be changed in this adaptation to better fit with Hank and Connor’s new positions. Similarly, the actions of some smaller supporting characters have also been tweaked. Also, the following chapters are probably gonna be shorter than this one. Thanks!

They’d told him to look for the lieutenant in one of the alleys nearby the station.

Hank is sticking his head down the third alley of the night, hands balled into tight fists. When he sees it’s as empty as the others, he lets out an angry breath of air. He’s only been activated for a few months and humans are already the worst part of trying to do his job. If it weren’t for the goddamn stupid rule that he needed one to accompany him to the crime scene, he’d already have given up on looking for this shitbag of a cop half an hour ago. 

He stomps towards another alley, his scanners locking onto the face of a man who’s sprawled across the ground. When the negative match pings onto his HUD, Hank grunts out an expletive that stirs the sleeping man momentarily. He stalks away, half of his attention looking for a loophole in android laws that would let him strangle this time-wasting idiot when he manages to find him.

He can see the soft light of a flame as he approaches the fifth alley. A man stands stiffly straight in the glow as the unmistakable stench of marijuana wafts around him. The light comes from a lit blunt, held tightly between two of his fingers. He lets out a cloud of smoke from his mouth as Hank approaches, head leaning back as he blows the cloud away. His pressed suit gives him a stark contrast to the dirty environment he’s in.

Hank wastes no time on formalities, instead positioning himself to be able to scan the man’s face. 

Collecting Data....

Processing Data…

Anderson, Connor

Born: 01/22/2013 // Lieutenant

Criminal Record: None

“Detective Anderson, you were supposed to arrive at a crime scene over an hour ago. The precinct attempted to call you, but you failed to answer your phone. They told me you might be in one of the alleys nearby. It took me five to find you.” Hank doesn’t attempt to disguise the annoyance in his tone. 

The man looks startled at his presence and pushes himself off the wall harshly enough that he has to wheel his arms to regain his balance.

“You’re an android.” The man says, stupidly. 

“CyberLife has assigned me to assist with the investigation.” Take over would be a better term for it, considering the lieutenant’s state. “They are still expecting us at the crime scene.” 

“Oh, of course. Sorry.” The lieutenant at least has the dignity to look embarrassed about the situation as he fishes his car keys out of his pocket. 

Given that a car crash caused by an idiot who is currently unfit to be behind the wheel would further delay his arrival at the scene, Hank grabs the keys from the lieutenant's hands. 

“You are not capable of driving in your current state.” He briskly tells the man. 

The lieutenant doesn’t object to the statement, ducking his head into a nod before pointing out his car sitting in front of the alley. The vehicle is a two-seater, appearance as clean and spotless as the lieutenant’s. Hank, already sick of wasting time, leads the way to the car. Anderson trails behind, head down and eyes on the ground. He enters through the driver’s side door, sliding in and quietly considering driving off before Anderson gets into the car. The man takes a moment to throw away his blunt before taking the passenger side seat. Shoving the keys into the slot, Hank internally curses his protocols that prevent him from speeding. Pressing down on the gas, he finally begins to make his way to the scene. 

“I don’t normally slack.” Anderson mumbles beside him, hands folded neatly in his lap. “I didn’t think I was going to be needed again tonight.” 

Christ, Hank couldn’t care less what this jackass normally does. He just wants to get to the fucking crime scene and do his job. 

“I apologize for causing you so much trouble.” 

Hank doesn’t respond. Maybe if he lets the fucker wallow in his own misery, he’ll be less likely to screw with Hank’s job. 

“I don’t think I got your name.” Anderson says, his tone now less pitiful. He looks over at him expectantly. 

“Hank.” He grunts out. 

“I’m Lieutenant Connor Anderson.” The lieutenant responds back, a hesitant smile on his face. “Despite our rough start, I’m certain that we-”

“We’re here.” Hank announces, cutting off the lieutenant as he pulls over to the side of the road. 

He takes out the keys, tossing them across to the passenger’s side before slamming the car door shut. The house they’d parked outside of is missing large chips of paint across it’s white exterior, with the police lights highlighting its rundown appearance. Officers mill about the uncut lawn, kicking aside littered beer cans as they discuss the case. A small crowd of humans has formed outside the scene, chattering pointlessly about the crime and possible suspects. Hank has to restrain the urge to shove them away as he tries to navigate his way inside. 

A hand raises up to stop him. 

“Androids are not permitted beyond this point.” a hypocritical android informs him in a curt tone. 

“He’s with me.” The lieutenant shouts from the car, maneuvering himself through the crowd until he’s shoulder to shoulder with Hank. 

“Connor,” A man who looks strikingly like the lieutenant calls out as he steps out of the house. His programming picks up on their subtle distinguishing factors. The man's hair is slicked back, his broad chin and shoulders giving him an imposing look. “Did Amanda assign you an android to help pick up your slack?”

Anderson shifts uncomfortably beside him.

“Cyberlife sent him to help me with the case.” The lieutenant looks over to Hank, seemingly imploring him to back up his claims. 

Hank ignores him, instead walking across the overgrown lawn and into the house. He does a quick scan of the lieutenant's aggressor as he passes by. 

Collecting Data....

Processing Data…

Anderson, Conan

Born: 01/22/2007 // Sergeant

Criminal Record: None

Hank gives a huff as he enters the house. He should have expected that the squabble was petty family drama. Humans. 

The room he steps into looks as though it was torn apart, with crooked bookshelves, scattered beer cans, and garbage strewn across the room. Several blood stains are blotted across the dirty yellow carpet. Among fast food bags and wrappers is the victim’s body, which a cloud of flies swarms. His eyes drift above it, the bright red of painted words catching his attention. “I AM ALIVE” is painted, in straight Cyberlife Sans. 

He hears a movement behind him as the sergeant and the lieutenant enter. 

“His name is Carlos Ortiz,” the sergeant points to the rotting carcass. “His record includes theft and aggravated assault. There was no sign of a break in and the believed murder weapon is a knife, yet nothing has been found yet." He speaks in short statements, getting directly to the facts of the case with a practiced efficiency. "Oh, and Connor,” He eyes the lieutenant directly. “I will be informing Amanda about your tardiness in arriving at the scene.” 

The man nods tersely to the comment. Hank leans down towards the body, silently wondering why he couldn’t have gotten assigned to the more professional sergeant instead of the lieutenant. Kneeling, he scans over the corpse. 

Collecting Data…. 

Processing Data…

RED ICE DETECTED

It doesn’t surprise him that the guy’s a junkie. Humans always choose to shoot up or snort whatever is available. He notes that the drugs increase the likelihood that the victim had violent or irrational behavior. 

Collecting Data… 

Processing Data…

28 KNIFE WOUNDS DETECTED

Despite his limited time in the field, Hank knows that is far above the number of wounds needed to kill a man. Furthermore, the marks indicate that he was stabbed, specifically in places that wouldn’t contribute to a quick death. He takes a mental note that the murder was likely a crime of passion. 

He stands, eyes sweeping the room for anything else that might be useful. Tattered posters line the walls, all for action movies or human bands. Irrelevant to the investigation. Much of the paint has been stripped, only leaving behind the splintered wood. Where it is visible, the paint is yellowed, likely from the victim smoking copious amounts of red ice. Beside him, the lieutenant examines the wall.

“This writing on the wall is too neat to have been done by a human hand.” He remarks. 

Hank doesn’t bother responding to the obvious observation, instead moving onto the next room. More splotches of blood lead him from the body to the kitchen. The cupboards and counters of the room are almost bare, only a few boxes of food sit out. It indicates the victim having low income, but the rest of the house had already told him that. The few chairs and a table that fill the mostly empty space are overturned, pointing to a struggle. A metallic bat lays beside them. 

“The overturned chairs here seem to point to a struggle.” The lieutenant unhelpfully supplies from the doorway. 

Hank gives a grunt as a response before crouching near the bat. It's heavily dented on one side. 

Collecting Data… Processing Data…

FINGERPRINTS DETECTED

Database match: Ortiz, Carlos

Criminal record: Theft and assault

The fingerprints partnered with the dent suggest that the victim had used the bat against his android. His subsequent knifing likely happened in retaliation. However, the android must have been damaged by the bat. Meaning…

Scanning…

The neon blue of faded thirium lights up the bat. A trail of speckled blue leads out of the kitchen to the living room and the body. Another trail is smeared down the hallway. Hank pushes himself off the ground, following the hallway marks. Bits of blue are smudged across the entirety of the wall and the ground, stopping abruptly at the passage’s end. He glances to the right. Only a bathroom, no place to escape. Nowhere to go left or right. He looks up. 

A neon handprint is smeared across the attic door above. 

With a brisk pace, he returns to the kitchen. The lieutenant is studying the knives on the wall, clearly far behind him in his dissection of the investigation. Hank grabs a chair, making his way back down the hallway. Setting it against the wall, he stands on it, pushing the door of the attic open. 

He pulls himself up. 

There is an anxious calm in the attic, the only sound being the rain hitting the roof. White sheets are strung between stacks of boxes, inhibiting him from seeing more than a few feet ahead. Still, he doesn’t take much care to be quiet as he steps forward. The android would have heard the police downstairs and the bang of him opening the attic door. Even if he tries to run, the only way out is down into the swarm of officers. 

One sheet is pushed aside at a time, one after the other. He faintly hears the lieutenant call his name downstairs, probably to tell him some bit of information that he already knows. He pushes past another sheet and considers just shouting for the damn android to come out instead of wading through this tedious mess of fabric and boxes. 

One more sheet is shoved aside, and he takes a step forward to the next only to pause. An undefined shadow is visible behind the fabric. It’s crouched down, trembling. Hank rips away the sheet. 

The android is curled against the wall, a crimson streaked knife held tightly in his shaking hands. He startles at seeing Hank, flinching away.

“I was just defending myself.” He stutters in a whispered voice, “Please,” he begs, “he was going to kill me.”

Eyes on the knife, Hank curses the law against androids carrying weapons. This situation would be much easier with a gun in a holster. 

“Look,” Hank starts, raising his hands non threateningly. “I underst-

There’s the loud sound of wood creaking behind him, and the android’s focus is quickly directed there. 

“Android model 293-092-909-27, ” the lieutenant's voice rings out over the small attic space, “Serious malfunctions are obvious in your software and-” 

The android pushes itself off the ground, knife in hand, and lunges at the man. Anderson manages to sidestep the attack with a yelp, making a grab for his gun. The android is undeterred, tackling the man. Hank throws himself onto the gun as it clatters to the floor, thankful to have a weapon. He cocks it as the android reels back with his knife above the lieutenant. 

A gunshot echoes through the room. 

Neon blue drips onto the lieutenant's shirt from the android’s head, its body frozen in place. The hand is still curled around the knife, inches from Anderson’s chest. The man stares at it, similarly frozen apart from his rapid breathing. 

“Who was shot?” Sergeant Anderson’s voice echoes from the main floor. “Have you found the android, Connor?” 

The lieutenant's gaze snaps from the knife to the hole in the android’s head, which is still dripping blue onto his shirt. With a shove, the android’s body falls to a heap beside him and the man’s eyes are now on Hank. 

“Why would you shoot him?” He spits, eyes glaring. “We needed him for the investigation!” 

“Are you a fucking idiot?” Hank growls back, “You would’ve gotten stabbed!”

“I don’t- We needed him!” He repeats with a shout. 

“If you hadn’t intervened, Lieutenant Anderson,” Hank stabs a finger at his chest. “We would have had him!” The lieutenant's eyes widen, his anger momentarily forgotten. “Here.” Hank shoves the gun back into his hands. “It was a real pleasure to work with you.” 

The lieutenant doesn’t respond, not glancing back up at him or the android’s body as he turns towards the attic door. As he drops down, Hank hears him blurt the news of the android’s death. 

“Fucking asshole.” Hank mutters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hank, five seconds after being activated: I hate everyone around me and myself.
> 
> I know a lot of these ‘swap’ stories give Connor cigarettes, but I honestly feel that he’d indulge in the devil’s cabbage. First of all, weed is already legal in Michigan/Detroit and would be much more normalized by 2038. Second of all, Connor’s anxiety would probably have him choose weed as it is considered to help with stress. 
> 
> I also literally had to go back and triple check this, because I kept accidentally having Hank refer to Connor as “Connor” instead of “Lieutenant” or “Anderson”.


	2. At the Office

The mindscape was something the designers at Cyberlife installed into him to check in on his progress throughout the investigation in an inviting setting. With his level of technology, they could have programmed anything into it, a nice calming garden, a cozy cottage, a tropical getaway. Instead, they gave him a bleak and gray office building. Praise the ingenuity and creativity of programmers.

Despite the ten floors they somehow found the need to code in, Jeffrey was the only other entity there. And for whatever reason dreamt up by the programmers, he only ever enters the mindscape on the first floor, nine floors away from Jeffery’s office. He can imagine the Cyberlife monkey’s developing the space. 

“Oh of course, the android will love the short break on the elevator. He’ll have ample time to formulate his thoughts from the investigation.” 

Assholes. The elevator ride to the office only ever made him pissed at whoever designed this place. They could’ve built anything in here. But no, let’s give the special investigative android who will work in an office half the time anyways an office. 

The elevator dings as it stops at the top floor. Cubicles line the floor in a grid pattern, all in exact rows. Jeffrey’s office is in the farthest corner, with a bronze nameplate placed at perfect eye height on the door. Hank doesn’t bother knocking, simply turning the knob and entering.

Unlike the rest of the building, Fowler’s office is the only room that looks remotely lived in. Papers are strewn across his desk without evident rhyme or reason. His chair is never at an exact 90 degree angle like the ones outside, instead always tilted back as he scolds Hank for one stupid thing or another. 

Despite the room itself being a relative upgrade from the rest of the building, Hank still always dreaded being summoned to the office. The entire purpose of Fowler’s creation was to nag Hank about the investigation and damn if that wasn’t the only thing he ever did.

“Hank.” Fowler greets him curtly from his desk as he steps into the office. “I saw what happened during your investigation. I can’t say I’m impressed.”

“Yeah, well I’m sure you saw how well working with a human partner went.” Hank snarks back. “If you’d just get Cyberlife to let me investigate these cases on my own I-”

“Absolutely not Hank.” Jeffrey stands, towering over his desk. “You are fully aware how much of a PR scandal it would be if it got out that Cyberlife was sending androids to go investigate on their own.”

“It’ll be just as much of a PR scandal if my idiot partner gets himself killed. Jeffery please,” Hank pleads, “I could finish this investigation so much faster if I could just-”

“No Hank!” Jeffrey slams a hand down onto his desk, scattering papers throughout the room. “You are going to work with that DPD lieutenant and save him however many times he gets his ass into trouble until you finish this investigation! This conversation is over!” 

Hank slams the door shut on the way out. 

  
  


————

The taxi slows itself to a halt outside of the precinct and Hank steps out, still stewing in his frustration over the investigation. The car gives him an automatic thank-you as it drives away, leaving him alone in front of the building. He pushes the door open with a sigh. Time to deal with this shit again. 

The receptionist android greets him far too cheerfully the second he’s two steps in the door. 

“Can I help you?” She asks him with a bright smile. 

“I’m here for Connor Anderson.” He says, wishing that he wasn’t. 

“Do you have authorization?” 

"Hold on.” A soft ringing fills the air as he sends authentication through a local communication channel. It beats the hell out of him why Cyberlife thought that sound was necessary or enjoyable.

“Lieutenant Anderson is at his desk. He arrived early this morning.” 

Hank nods curtly, striding away past the barrier. Like the ST300 said, Anderson’s at his desk, head down and scribbling something down onto paper. His desk is both overflowing with work and incredibly organized, neat stacks of paper piled high, with colored tabs cascading down the sides. There’s only one personal item on the desk, almost obscured by the stacks of papers, a framed photo of an orange tabby cat lying on a pile of blankets

Hank raps on the desk with his fist, jerking the lieutenant out of whatever paperwork stupor he’d fallen into. His head snaps up and the man’s on his feet immediately. 

“Hank, I’m glad you’re still willing to work with me.” Hank wonders if he should tell the man he'd practically groveled to do the opposite. “I wanted to extend my apologies for my outburst yesterday.” The lieutenant’s hands are grasping each other, wringing themselves as he speaks. “I realize that it was incredibly inappropriate behavior and you were trying to ensure my safety. I didn’t mean-I just- I’m sorry.” The lieutenant finishes his speech staring woefully at Hank, hands still clasping at each other. 

Hank’s mind whirls for a moment. He’d been pissed off by bastard humans plenty of times and had to deal with their stupid mistakes, but never had one come back to him and act like he actually deserved a proper apology. But now the lieutenant's staring at him like his rejection or approval of the apology is of utmost importance. 

“Just don’t get yourself almost killed again.” he finally manages to spit out. 

And Anderson actually smiles at his sarcastic response, even giving a confident nod like he’s actually going to try harder not to get killed. Christ, how did he get the fucking weirdest idiot at the DPD. 

“Connor, I’d like to see you in my office.” 

The voice breaks Hank out of his thoughts. A dark skinned human in a fitted suit holds the door open to the glass office in the center of the precinct. The lieutenant’s smile disappears and his body tenses. There’s a slight shift in his posture as he leaves, as he carries himself straighter. 

“They couldn’t have done that earlier?” Hank groans as the glass door shuts behind Anderson.

Leaning back against the lieutenant’s desk, Hank looks out over the rest of the office. His thoughts are on the previous night and Anderson’s remorseful reaction after causing them to be late to the scene. At the time he’d figured that the mix of weed and fear of repercussions from his boss was what had spurred the man’s actions. But today, even when apologizing to him wouldn’t gain the man credibility with anyone else and his mind wasn’t riddled with drugs, he seemed to care desperately about his approval of the apology. 

He watches Anderson through the glass windows of the office. The captain isn’t yelling, but the lieutenant is shrinking in on himself from whatever she’s saying all the same. Still, the man’s eyes are focused, taking in every word. It’s obvious that he cares deeply about whatever this woman thinks of him, despite how she treats him. It’s obvious he wants her approval. 

Just like how he wanted Hank’s.

Hank groans. 

The man’s desperation for his approval was just a means to an end. A replacement when he couldn’t get what he wanted from real people. Humans just want to feel good about themselves, no matter who or what they can get that feeling from. It wasn’t ever a real apology. 

Hank turns his head away from the office. He has better things to do. 

His eyes glance over the papers on the lieutenant's desk. Most of the papers seemed to be printed case files on deviants with Anderson’s chicken scratch scribblings in the margins. Large sections of the papers were highlighted or underlined. Either the asshole was weirdly invested in the case or really that frantic for his mentor’s approval. 

“Hey, android, the fuck are you doing just standing around?” A shout draws his attention away from the papers. Christ, he’s already so done with interacting with humans today and the only one he’s talked to so far is Anderson. 

The human approaching him was already scowling like an asshole. Hank notices a gash on the man’s nose, a clear sign that he was aggressive. Great, a fight with a human in which he’s not allowed to fight back without a PR scandal will certainly brighten his lovely day. 

“I’m waiting for Lieutenant Anderson.” With any luck the dick will go away with that. 

“What model android are you?” The man demands. 

At such a stupid question, Hank forgets his self-preservation. Expression deadpan, he simply uses his hand to underline the model number written plainly on his shirt. The bastard’s face tinges red, Hank guesses both in embarrassment and anger. Regardless, anger seems to win over as the man balls his hands into fists. 

“Listen here, android-” He growls. 

“Hank!” The lieutenant appears to his left, grabbing at his shirtsleeve. “Hello Gavin, I hope you’re doing well. Hank and I have an investigation, so I hope you’ll pardon us for ducking out so suddenly.” 

Gavin, in his surprise at Anderson’s presence, doesn’t follow after them as Anderson practically drags him aside. When they’re more than a few feet away, Hank uses his free hand to pull Anderson’s hand off his shirt. 

“You didn’t need to manhandle me.” He snaps.

He brushes out his now wrinkled shirt sleeve, accomplishing nothing. 

“My apologies for intervening with Gavin,” Anderson says, holding the precinct door open for Hank. “He just has a tendency of getting into fights.”

“Has he fought you before?” It wouldn't surprise him if someone tried to beat Anderson up. 

“No, nothing like that.” The lieutenant waves his hands as if he’s dispelling the idea from the air. “He’s just spilled coffee on me a couple times and cornered me to yell at me. I think he likes it when I’m overwhelmed.” Anderson pauses. “Sorry, I think that was too much information.”

“Yeah, sounds like a real stand up guy.” Hank grumbles. “I hope you’re sober enough to drive this time.” 

“Of course,” Anderson’s face tinges slightly pink. “I also got in early enough today to look through all the cases of deviancy that have occurred so far. I believe I found a good starting point for our investigation”

"Well I hope so,” Hank grumbles, “we’ve got a lot of missed time to catch up on.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hank: Could the lieutenant actually not be a dick?  
> Hank: Nah, it’s probably just my imagination.  
> Chapter 2! I hope everyone likes the story so far, because I’m having a ton of fun with it. Poor Connor has been having such a rough time so far in the story. Hey, maybe things will turn out better next chapter?


	3. To The Chase

Head resting on his hand, Hank’s eyes barely register the scenery they drive by. His attention is too focused on the elevator music Anderson for some reason likes. He gets his fill of the stuff on his rides up to Fowler’s office and now he’s being subjected to it during his work hours. 

“I didn’t think any humans actually listened to this kind of stuff.” He grumbles, hand gesturing to the car speakers. 

“I can change it if you’d like, Hank.” The lieutenant says, ever the people-pleaser. Or android-pleaser in this case, Hank supposes. “I had this on because most people don’t like my taste in music.”

“Anything would be better than this.”

Wish granted, Anderson presses a few buttons on the main console and the car goes silent for a moment. Then a chorus begins, the words seeming like complete nonsense to Hank. He scans the audio. 

**Collecting Data....**

**Processing Data…**

**Cats (Original London Cast Recording)**

**Genre: Musical**

**Release Date: 1983**

Great, the man’s a theatre kid. Anderson's eyes flicker from the road to him several times, likely gauging his reaction. He decides to make no more music based suggestions to the lieutenant. 

“I should tell you about the scene we’re going to. An AX400 allegedly assaulted a man last night and was later spotted in the Wilhelm District. I thought it would be a good lead.” 

Recent and obvious deviant behaviour, not a terrible idea. 

“That seems like a good starting place.” 

Anderson beams at the simple affirmation of his idea. 

The Cats soundtrack carries them to their destination, and by the time they arrive Hank knows far too much about far too many cats. He almost sags in relief when Anderson pauses the song where a cat sings about how much he eats everyday. 

An equal number of shops and abandoned buildings line the street they step out onto. Apparently they weren’t the only police at the scene, as he spots Anderson’s brother interrogating a witness further down the road. Anderson notices the man as well and is apparently similarly surprised, given how his eyes widen for a moment. 

“Connor,” Conan Anderson greets them less than enthusiastically, “I’m rather surprised you’re still heading the android investigation.” The lieutenant says nothing in response. It seems he agrees. “We have officers sweeping the premises, but at the moment, we haven’t found anything.” 

Anderson nods and the sergeant turns away. Good old family love. 

Hank runs a hand through his hair, looking out at the dozens of buildings surrounding them. Christ, it’d take forever to search everywhere. There’s no guarantee that the androids stayed the night here either, they could be long gone by now. 

Anderson’s musing audibly over the facts of the case beside him. Hank considers telling him to can it so he can think, but given that he didn’t actually read the case file, he decides to listen in. 

“She took the first bus that came along,” The lieutenant murmurs, beginning to pace in front of his parked car, “and stayed to the end of the line. The choice doesn’t seem to make logical sense, but…” The man trails off. 

Hank decides to throw him a bone and prompt him. 

“It was probably scared.” He supplies, “It wasn’t acting rationally.”

“Androids feel fear?” Anderson’s expression shifts slightly. 

“Deviants do.”

The lieutenant frowns for a moment, but his expression turns more thoughtful. 

“She didn’t have a plan. It was pouring yesterday night, cloudy and dark. If deviants feel fear, then it's likely she didn’t go far.”

“Maybe.” Hank concedes. 

\-------

It’s a half an hour later when they’re searching the abandoned parking lot that Hank finds it. 

There’s a clatter of dropped things when he announces the presence of dried blue blood on the metal fence. Anderson scrambles over, whatever he was inspecting forgotten as he makes a mad dash to the first piece of evidence they’ve found. Hank had considered keeping the information to himself, but given how that had turned out in the first case, he’d figured it might be better to share. 

The lieutenant crouches down, scrambling through the hole in the metal wiring as if the deviants would disappear if he waited a second longer. He does, however, pause upon reaching the other side. Hank grabs at the metal wiring, hoisting himself up and over the fence. He lands with an audible thump. The lieutenant whips his head about like the deviants might begin popping up from the bushes from the noise. 

When nothing appears Anderson takes off at a fast pace towards the house, turning his head back occasionally to look at Hank. Their speed decreases as they near the windows. Anderson slinks around them with deliberate care. The act of sneaking around feels incredibly silly to Hank, but he participates nonetheless. He takes brief glances into the house as they pass, only ever catching glimpses of trashed rooms. 

They’re nearly to the door when they hear voices. There are at least three, judging by the sound alone, likely androids. Hank moves from his position outside the door, but Anderson grabs his sleeve, pulling him back. 

“No, Hank,” Anderson whispers urgently, “We need to approach this with caution. There are multiple deviants in there and going in with hostility will impact their reaction to us. Perhaps if you enter alone, as a fellow android, they might be more open to questions regarding their situation.” 

He wants to tell the man off for giving him orders but the logic is sound, especially given their last encounter with deviants. He nods wordlessly, leaving Connor crouched outside on the porch as he knocks twice on the door. Knocking’s about as nonthreatening as you can get, right?

The voices inside go silent. Shit. 

He knocks again. There’s a frantic exchange of hushed voices behind the door coupled with the sound of things falling. Yeah, this wasn’t a great idea. 

With one kick, the door flies open. 

There’s one android visible in the room, a battered WR600 anxiously twirling a knife between its fingers. Where the hell do deviants get all these knives? There’s an inconsistent flicker to the android’s LED, flashing brightly before dimming completely in irregular intervals. It’s body twitches as Hank attempts to scan it. 

**Collecting Data....**

**Processing Data…**

**Processing LED**

**Signs of software instability**

**Probability of self destruction: Moderate**

Great. At least Connor was probably right. They likely would have ended up in another knife fight if they’d gone in guns blazing and that’s not even counting whatever weapons the other deviants might have. 

His eyes skim across the room. Behind the android is a table set up, plates, dishes and all. Odd. Androids don’t need to eat. However, the set table does tell him the androids had almost no time to prepare for his arrival, meaning they couldn’t have gone far. 

His gaze moves past the table. He would have heard them if they’d run up the stairs while he was outside, but- Oh jesus, they must think he’s dumb. There’s a pile of boxes stacked precariously, blocking his view of the inside of the stairs. It’s almost screaming with suspicion. 

He looks back at the knife being guided around the fingers of the jittery android next to him. Right, he needs to act non threatening. He cycles through his usually ignored introduction protocols. No time like the present to give them a spin. 

“Hello, I’m Hank.” He sounds like a complete idiot. 

The android next to him looks confused by the introduction. After a few moments of silence, it seems to realize Hank wants something from him. In what it probably thinks is a friendly gesture, it waves its knife in greeting. 

“Ralph is Ralph.” It tells him. How insightful. 

He skims through his other program-suggested dialogue options, but the majority of it seems to be worthless. He doubts asking about the game last night or the weather will particularly help with his chances here. Still, Ralph appears to have relaxed slightly, if the lack of knife twirling was anything to go by. With any luck, his efforts will have been enough to not get anybody stabbed. 

Nonetheless, there’s nothing left to do other than get to the point. He takes a step away from Ralph and his knife, centering himself into a defensive position. 

“Look, I know you’re under the stairs.” 

He expected an outbreak of a fight, a burst of movement. Instead, he watches as the boxes are gently shoved aside and the two hidden androids emerge. The short haired AX400 dressed in ratty human clothes appears first, whose two primary characteristics defy the American Androids Act. It’s hand is clasping the hand of a YK500, who has similar deviant clothes on. As they retreat from their place under the stairs, Ralph eyes him, shifting his weight from foot to foot, but he hasn’t made any move to attack him. Yet. 

“I’m Kara,” the AX400 tells him, in a stiff, formal manner. “This is Alice.” The YK500 gives a shy wave, most of its body hidden behind the legs of the AX400. 

“There are reports that you assaulted a man last night.” He informs them. The YK500 now hides its head completely, squeezing Kara’s legs tightly. “I’m sure you’re aware that we need to bring you in for questioning.”

“I was protecting her.” Kara’s arm wraps itself protectively around Alice. “Her father was hurting her and we needed to leave.” 

Father? It’s an android for fuck’s sake. Could these things really think that the YK500 was an actual child? Deviancy has made them unstable, the revelation that the “child” isn’t a machine might cause them to lash out. He settles on ignoring the idea, persisting with the previous line of interrogation. 

“Regardless, that doesn’t change the circumstances. You’re going to have to come with me for questioning.” And deactivation, though he decides against mentioning that. 

Kara, for her part, doesn’t concede. 

“She needs me.” She tells him self-assuredly, fingers brushing themselves through Alice’s hair. “She needs me. I won’t go with you.”

If he tells them that they can be reunited later, maybe he can conv-

Ralph lunges at him without warning, shouting at Kara to run with the “little girl”. Hank easily sidesteps the attack as the two androids take off running, held together by their linked hands. Hank dodges the knife’s blade once more, calling out to the lieutenant about the runaway androids. 

He can see Anderson pop up from his hiding spot through the window. The brief glimpse that Hank catches of the man before he disappears is a face set with determination. He focuses his attention back on Ralph, using his leg to knock the deviant off balance. Even as the android falls, he continues pumping his arm in a repetitive stabbing motion. Hank turns away, he needs to catch up. 

Leaning forward, he takes off into a sprint. Anderson´s far ahead, weaving between people and occasionally shouting “sorry”. Hank wasn’t built for speed, Cyberlife had given him a bulkier build in an attempt to give him an advantage in android-to-android fights. Still, he urges his body to go faster, his thirium pump thumping against his chest. 

He pushes past the crowds of people who are too stupid to move and just catches the sight of Connor dissapearing into an alley. He pivots right, feet nearly losing their traction on the wet sidewalk. His shoes hit the brown puddles in the alley, splashing water up to his pant legs. He cringes, but keeps running. 

Hank stops ahead at a fence and as he closes in he can see Connor is face to face with the androids. The AX400 is standing in front of the YK500, despite the fence between them and their attacker. When Hank finally catches up, the pair turns away, hands interlocked as they slide down the hill. Christ, they were heading towards a highway. The androids are fucking crazy enough to try to cross the thing. 

There’s a rattle to his right and he remembers his partner is just as crazy. Anderson’s feet are already shoved into the metal wires of the fence, hands grabbing. Hank takes hold of Anderson’s jacket to yank him down. One of the lieutenant’s feet pushes off of the fence, swinging out and colliding into Hank’s chest. 

Stunned, Hank finds himself on the ground. He’s pushing himself up as Anderson scrambles up away. 

“Anderson!” He shouts after the man. “Connor!” 

There’s no pause as the lieutenant throws his body over the fence, sliding down the dirt hill and onto the highway. 

“Goddamnit, Connor.” 

Connor’s weaving between the cars as smoothly as he weaved between the civilians. Hank doesn’t want to calculate his chance of survival, but he can’t rip his eyes away from the scene. When the lieutenant makes it to the divider between the roads, he realizes he’s been holding his breath. 

But the lieutenant doesn’t stop, eyes set on the androids. He tackles the AX400 in the middle of the road, ripping it away from the YK500. Both it and Connor land a hair away from the speeding tires of a car. The android kicks out against the man and they slide apart. It reaches up, taking the small android’s hand once again. Across the road Connor pushes himself off the ground when a truck thunders between them. 

When the vehicle is gone, so are the deviants. 

Even from the distant spot on the top of the hill, he can hear the ring as Connor kicks the metal barrier. 

Hank lets out a breath. He wasn’t mad about the deviants escaping, they could go live out their delusional daughter fantasy for all he cared. They were as good as gone the second they made it to the highway. At least Connor hadn’t gotten run over. Really, that would have been a PR disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I really expected this chapter to be much shorter, but it kind of got away from me. Connor and Hank now have more information about the thought process of deviants compared to this point in the actual game. Also, I adore Kara as well as my boy Ralph and wanted to give them a bit of time in the story. 
> 
> Yes, this is the second fic where I made Connor a theatre kid. Also, no hate to the Cats musical, it's one of my absolute favorites. Hank just wasn’t prepared for the wonder that is Cats.


	4. The Nest

The tension is palpable as they drive in silence. 

After the idiot had run out onto the highway like he had a death wish, the DPD had to stop traffic temporarily just to ensure Connor could make it back to the other side safely. The lieutenant had balled the hem of his jacket into his fists, saying nothing when he was reunited with Hank. Sergeant Conan Anderson seemed to have been the only one who’d found enjoyment in the scene, having a subtle quirk to his lips as they left. 

Now, Hank stared out at the road as Connor drove. He knows he should be furious at the man for not just endangering himself but for lashing out at Hank when he’d tried to stop him. Both somehow, the anger doesn’t come. It’s relief, he supposes, that he won’t have to scrape the man off the pavement and then have to find some other idiot to be his partner. 

“Hank,” Connor starts, breaking the quiet, “Your one order for me this morning was to not get myself almost killed again.” There’s a pause. “I just saw the deviants running and needed-” His hands grip the wheel tighter. “I understand if you’re upset.”

A sigh escapes Hank’s mouth. From everything he’d seen, Connor was desperate, for any kind of approval. Based on his limited interaction with the man, his main sources for that approval were Captain Amanda and himself. Though he had ordered Connor to not get killed, it’s almost certain Amanda’s orders would be to pursue his mission at all costs. When Connor got to the highway, those orders would have conflicted. And when it came down to it, Connor had chosen the investigation over his self preservation. 

He’d chosen the investigation over himself and he’d failed anyways. Again. 

“Connor, I’m not upset.” Oddly, that’s the truth. 

The lieutenant eyes him, his distrust in the statement obvious. It really shouldn’t matter to Hank whether the man accepts his statement. He’s just a human, just his partner for the investigation. Hank wouldn’t know what else to say anyways. 

“How is it that you get angry anyways?” The words slip out of Connor’s mouth, completely disconnected from their current conversation. The man backtracks. “No, not angry, I didn’t mean it in a negative way, Hank. I just-”

Hank lets the man ramble for a few moments. Of course the one thing that would distract Connor from self pity would be some investigation or mystery for him to solve. Weirdo. 

“It’s not really anger, it’s just my programmed reaction to delays in the investigation.” And Jesus, has he had delays in this investigation. “Cyberlife apparently thought that giving me a way to emulate anger would work as good motivation to avoid distractions. If I had the programming of a regular android I’d be saying “please and thank you” all day, stuck in a million fucking formalaties. We’d get nowhere in the investigation.” 

“And they were okay with you being able to swear?”

“More realistic?” Hank shrugs. “I’m not a programmer, go ask Cyberlife if you’re that interested.” 

There’s a ping inside his head and he can feel his LED flickering, both alerting him to a new message. 

“We got another report of a deviant.” Christ, these things were everywhere. “It’s a few blocks away. Here, I’ll plug it into your GPS.”

Connor visibly brightens, any trace of his earlier gloominess gone. Hank can feel his LED circle yellow a few times as he sends the address to the car’s console. Connor is drumming his fingers across the steering wheel, far too energetic than he has any right to be.

“Could you pass me an energy bar, Hank?” Connor asks, despite already seeming to be overflowing with energy. “They’re in the glove compartment. If we’re going to a scene I won’t have time to eat lunch.” 

Hank leans over, swinging the compartment open. It’s filled with nothing but the same flavor of protein bar. Did Connor eat these every day? Hank doesn’t even have taste buds and he can tell that it’s a depressing ass lunch. 

He tosses the bar over and Connor catches it, eyes still on the road. One hand on the wheel, the lieutenant uses his free hand to rip the packaging off the bar. The motion is far too fluid and easy for this to be anything but a regular occurence. It’s eaten in two bites; Hank’s nearly certain the man swallowed it without chewing. 

Connor slows the car, but taps the wheel excitedly as the GPS tells him that they have arrived. He parks outside of a towering apartment building. Like every crime scene they’d gone to so far, it was a trash pit. Did deviants not have taste or did living in disgusting dumps make you a deviant? 

Hank pushes the glass entrance door open and Connor catches it as he enters behind him. There’s a reception desk, but neither a human nor an android is stationed at it. He’s honestly grateful for the lack of someone stationed there, less questions and talking. He turns to the nearby elevator, which is as old and dilapidated as the building it resides in, and pushes the button. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, Hank,” Connor is back to his polite bullshit. “What did the report say?”

The elevator appears, audible creaking announcing its arrival. Hank swings the rusted metal gate aside and steps in. With any luck the thing wouldn’t collapse before they made it to the top. Though, Connor would probably find a way to almost kill himself with it even if it didn’t. 

“Someone living here said they heard noises coming from one of the rooms that nobody’s supposed to be living in.” Hank presses the button for the eighteenth floor. “Apparently the guy said he saw someone leaving with a cap hiding an LED.” 

The elevator jolts to a start, shaking slightly as it carries them upwards. Connor reaches into his pocket as they move, pulling out a quarter. He flicks it between his fingers, a quiet ping accompanying the groaning of the elevator. 

“What the hell are you doing?” 

“I’m bettering my reflexes in case they’re needed.” Connor pauses. “It also functions as an anxiety reliever, but I primarily use it for reflexes.”

“Ahuh” Well, he’s only known Connor for a day and a half and that’s already long enough to be fully aware the man needs some anxiety relief.

He decides to just let the man play with his coin, listening to the repeated pings as the quarter flies between his hands. When they reach their floor, the elevator jerks to a halt. Connor’s quarter flies off its intended path, out of the man’s reach. Hank snatches it from the air, passing it back to the lieutenant before he yanks the metal grating aside to step out into the hallway. 

Connor is still for a moment, staring between the coin and Hank. Then, he pockets it, following behind him. Hank stops in front of the apartment, rapping on the door. Unsurprisingly, there’s no response. 

He tries again, beating his fist against the door. The noise reverberates throughout the hallway. 

“Open up!” He orders, “Detroit Police!” 

A thud echoes from the inside of the apartment. It seemed that someone was living there after all. Hank glances back at Connor, whose hand is resting just above his holstered gun. They share a nod and he takes a step back, throwing his weight against the door. It flies open, colliding against the wall with a bang. 

The door leads to a barren hallway, two rooms on either side and one door at the end. He glances into the room on the right, which contains nothing but a wooden bed frame propped against the wall. The room to the left is similarly empty. The floorboards creak in protest as he moves forward to the door, which resists when he tries to push it open. He spares another glance at Connor, who looks ready to pounce onto the first android he sees. With a forceful kick, the door swings open, groaning all the while. 

There’s a sudden explosion of movement and Hank throws his arms across his face as things fly past him. It’s when the motion dies down that he recognizes the sound of beating wings. He cautiously lowers his arms to find the floor of the apartment is covered in birds. 

“Pigeons!” Connor exclaims behind him, sounding far too delighted by the situation. 

The few pieces of furniture in the apartment are obscured by birds resting upon them. He wades forward, every step causing another small cascade of pigeons to scatter into the air. Hank shooes a few birds resting on top of a counter against the wall. They coo in resentment as they fly away. Looking across the counter he spots a bag of birdseed, already ripped open. Christ, the deviant was feeding these things. 

He hears the waving of paper; Connor’s taking down a poster, revealing a sizable hole in the wall. He sets the poster gently onto a nearby table before pulling a dusty book out of the hole. 

“Found something?” 

Connor flips through the book, but shakes his head. 

“It looks like a notebook, but the pages are indecipherable,” He squints. “They look like mazes or some kind of code. Is there a way for you to decipher this?” 

“Not without a key. I’m guessing there’s not one of those stuck nicely in that hole in the wall?” He asks sarcastically. 

Connor sticks his head back into the hole. 

“I don’t see one.” He says, tone completely serious. 

“I didn’t mean-” Connor’s head perks up at his words, far too invested in whatever Hank had to say. “Nevermind.” 

He waves away a few birds on a nearby desk. A long coat lays draped across it. He picks it up, shoving his hands into the pockets. Nothing. He turns it over, spotting initials sewn into the pocket. Was the suspect a goddamn toddler? 

“There’s no food in the fridge.” Connor declares across the room. 

“Not surprising.” Even if this guy was human it was obvious he didn’t have any money to buy anything. 

He changes his focus to the bathroom. The lower part of the walls are tiled, chips missing from the grayed squares. There’s browned water pooled in the sink, curled leaves and broken sticks floating throughout it. Dots of bright blue are speckled on one edge of the sink, contrasting against the other muted colors. They circle a ring of metal, an LED, flickering dim flashes of color. 

“It’s an android.” He announces to Connor. 

Unsurprisingly, the lieutenant bolts into the bathroom, leaning over Hank and the LED like they’re precious treasure. He gingerly picks up the ring, examining it closely. Then, he begins flipping it between his fingers as he did to his coin. Hank’s not completely sure if the action is conscious or if it’s simply how Connor thinks. 

“RA9!” Connor shouts suddenly, and Hank startles at the exclamation. 

Connor’s looking at one of the walls, which is covered in the word. It's scribbled hundreds of times across its surface. Some places are indented, as if the word was either written with force or written until the wall had caved from the pressure.

“What the fuck is RA9?” 

“It was written on the shower wall in Carlos Ortiz’s house.” Connor tells him as if the information was obvious. 

Huh, Hank hadn’t bothered to check the bathroom. It still didn’t tell them what it meant, but at least there was _something_ linking the deviants. Perhaps if he’d checked the abandoned house that the AX400 hid in more thoroughly, he would have found the words written there as well. 

Connor stoops down beside him, examining an overturned stool upon the ground. Hank kneels down as well, eyeing the splintering wood. The lieutenant reaches out, grabbing at a marker that had been partially obscured by the stool. Puffy white pigeon excrement is dried across parts of the marker. Connor doesn’t seem particularly disgusted by it, instead he grins as he taps his finger against the black tip. Lines of black smear against his pale skin. 

He frantically shoves the grubby marker into Hank’s face. 

“Hank, look at this.” He whispers in an excited hush

Complying, Hank scans the item. 

**Collecting Data…**

**Processing Data…**

**OPENED MARKER PEN**

**Still wet - Used recently**

**Color: Midnight mood [black]**

Used Recently. 

Oh shit. 

He and Connor share a look. 

The lieutenant drops the marker, pushing himself off the ground. They step out of the bathroom together. Connor’s head whips around the room but his steps are measured. Hank can tell he’s trying to remain calm in the case that the android might be watching from some hidden location in the house. Nevertheless, the act is barely passable, as Connor swoops onto different pieces of evidence with an urgency that wasn’t there before. 

Connor is scrutinizing a rusted bird cage on the ground when he leaps up from his position. Christ, the man would be a terrible actor. He watches as Connor moves forward, steps purposeful. His path is set on the chair propped near the wall. Connor’s reasoning dawns on Hank. The deviant isn’t in the room, but above them. He’d used the chair to get into the attic. 

And now Connor’s striding purposefully towards another deviant who probably had yet another knife. His lack of self-preservation didn’t even seem intentional. His excitement over the investigation had probably robbed the man of any basic instinct. 

Connor stops beside the chair and looks up. A shadow appears above him, flying at the man. 

Hank lunges forward and shoves Connor aside. They land in a heap. The deviant hits the ground beside them, taking no time to launch itself into a sprint. Connor detangles himself from Hank, panic evident in his eyes as he takes off behind the deviant. 

“A thank you would have been nice.” Hank grumbles as he starts to run after the pair. 

There’s a crash as he enters the hallway; The deviant had thrown a metal shelf to the floor in an attempt to block their path. Connor leaps over it, not letting it deter him. Both the lieutenant and the deviant push their way through the door, leaving Hank alone in the hallway as he tries to awkwardly step over the shelf. 

Cyberlife had really fucked up when they built him. By building him for fighting rather than pursuit, he was hilariously behind on the chase. Who’d have thought the deviants would rather run than try to fight. The only sound as he pushes out onto the roof top is the steady thud of his feet. He hadn’t gotten a decent look at the android before he’d fled, but with his luck the thing didn’t have some kind of weapon. Connor would probably try to tackle the thing instead of waiting for him. 

He pushes himself harder, urging himself to catch up to the group. His joints ache in protest as he jumps down from the apartment roof onto a rooftop wheatfield. The plants brush past him as he runs, catching on his coat. Other stalks are trampled on, shoved quickly into the ground by his feet. 

He reaches a brick wall and his hands collide with the rough material, pulling the rest of his body up. More wheat lies ahead of him, but he spots a figure in the distance. Connor’s throwing himself onto a moving truck to get closer to the suspect. He leaps off it, once again disappearing out of sight. 

Hank would smack the moron if he was close enough to do it. Instead he pumps his legs, pushing past every stalk of wheat. The truck that Connor had used is long gone by the time he reaches the wall. Hank steps onto stacked bushels of wheat to reach the top. He hears someone shouting at him as they flatten under his weight. 

He ignores the yelling, throwing himself over the wall. Here, he finds more workers stationed, all staring into the greenhouse. Connor must have gone through there. He shoves workers aside, android and human alike as he enters the plastic building. Rows of plants block his path, and he pivots between aisles, hoping it’ll allow him to catch up. 

His feet hit cement once again as he exits the building, just in time to see his moron leaping off the side of the rooftop. His thirium pump stutters for a moment as he rushes forward. 

Connor is sliding down glass planes, and though he looks confident in the moment, Hank knows there’s a forty foot drop if he messes up. Without thinking, Hank dives onto the glass. The rooftop squeals as he slides against it. Below him, Connor startles at noise, twisting up to see Hank. 

Gaze averted, he misses his jump to the next rooftop. Hank gasps in a breath.

Hands flying out to fix his mistake, Connor manages to cling to the metal partition that marks the end of the roof. His legs dangle over the edge. Hank pushes his shoe against the glass, slowing his descent with a pitiful screech from the abused glass. He stops just before Connor’s hands, grabbing at them to pull the man up beside him. 

Connor mumbles a thank you, gaze locked onto where the deviant had fled. The anger he’d shown at previous deviant escapes was gone, replaced by something more resigned. Hank too forgets his anger. He’s feeling something else as he looks over Connor. 

His thirium pump is still thundering from the chase, but it begins slowing now. He looks over the rooftop, feeling almost sick as he sees the ground so far away. His programming helpfully tells him that Connor would have had a 0% chance of survival had he fallen. 

“We would have gotten it if I hadn’t messed up. Again.” Connor scrunches his hand into his jacket, marring the previously pressed fabric with hard wrinkles. “Colton was right, I don’t know why I’m still on this investigation.” 

Connor stands, leaning against the glass rooftop, feet balanced across the metal partition. He walks, one hand pressed against the glass until he reaches a nearby fire escape. He drops down, his collision with the metal echoing across the silence. 

Hank hasn’t moved. He stares as Connor gets further away. Two days ago he would have killed for the lieutenant to swear off the investigation. He would have loved this. 

He should love this. 

Why doesn’t he love this? Something in him feels different. Not the same. 

Why did he care so much about whether Connor would fall? Why doesn’t he want Connor to leave the investigation?

He doesn’t know what this is, what he’s feeling. He doesn’t know what to say. With nothing left, he searches his programming for a possible answer. There is none. 

He has to figure this out on his own. He needs to be the one to decide. 

\--------

Connor’s long gone by the time he can make a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha ha, Connor sure does love putting himself in mortal peril for the sake of his job in this AU. I’m sure that that won’t be important later, ha ha. Anyways, Russian Roulette is up next.
> 
> Also, whoopsy-daisy, I accidentally referred to Conan (RK900) as Cole last chapter. I fixed it now, sorry if that confused anyone! 
> 
> Note- I am currently moving during the Coronavirus and I have several AP tests coming up next week. So, in short, please don't be surprised if the next chapter takes a bit of time to come out. Thank you for understand!


	5. Finding The Lieutenant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for depiction of a panic attack.

Hank pushes himself into the leather chair of the Detroit Taxi, thinking. He crosses one leg over the other as he slumps into the seat. In the night’s darkness the reflection of his LED shines in the window, spinning an indecisive yellow. 

He’d sat on the glass rooftop long after Connor had stomped away, ignoring the stares and curious glances from the workers down below. His fingers had beaten upon the glass as he processed what had happened. Processed the fact that he had felt so strongly about Connor deciding to abandon their investigation. 

Connor, despite what he had first thought, had become integral to the investigation. He was the one who had found the deviant, the one who pursued them as if his life depended upon catching it. He had scoured every crime scene with a watchful eye, catching details that even Hank, the android who was built for this work, had missed. 

He was useful. 

Hank didn’t want him off the investigation. 

Connor was necessary for the investigation. That was the reason for his reaction. The reason was why he felt so wrong when Connor had gotten up and decided to quit. Why he’d found himself frozen in place, wanting Connor to come back. 

The car hits a bump and Hank jostles in his seat. His GPS helpfully informs him he’s closing in on the lieutenant’s house. He shifts, scraping his foot against the carpeted floor. People flash by the window as the car rolls past. It slows as it turns into a neighborhood. 

The car brakes gently, stopping nicely in front of a small house. As he steps out of the taxi, listening to the annoying “Thank you for using Detroit Taxis”. His LED flickers and pings. Great. Fowler wants to talk to him. The asshole had the best timing. He could’ve talked to him on the drive over just as easily, when Hank was doing nothing but sit there. But no. 

His eyes blink and he finds himself in the office building. He stomps towards the elevator with a huff, thoroughly annoyed with the entire situation. Stepping into the elevator, he leans against the wall, tapping his foot impatiently against the floor as he rises past the empty floors. When the door opens, he passes by the neatly organized desks, resisting the urge to kick in Fowler’s door. Instead he twists the knob open, revealing Fowler himself seated at his desk. He glances up when Hank enters as if he hadn’t been expecting him. Asshole. 

“Hank.” He greets curtly, rolling his chair forward. “You haven’t made significant progress on your investigation.”

“Yeah, well it’s-” 

“I wasn’t done, Hank.” Fowler cuts in, with an annoyed look. “While you haven’t made progress in your investigation, I’ve seen you have successfully developed a relationship with your partner.” He aims a pointed glance at him and Hank can see the I-told-you-so behind his stoic exterior. “I expect you to continue to maintain the relationship as it will be key in your investigation.” 

“Right, I’ve got it. Can I go now?” Hank barks, “If you want that relationship to stay friendly I’d imagine you’d want me to stop him from leaving the investigation.”

“Fine.” Fowler grunts. “Just remember that you need to get your ass going on that investigation. Like I said, you have made minimal progress. And don’t piss off the lieutenant.” He clicks a pen, balanced delicately between his fingers. “You’re dismissed.” 

Fowler’s smug face disappears, along with the office, in a second, leaving him alone in front of the lieutenant’s house. Hank runs a hand through his hair. Christ, Fowler was getting on his ass way more than necessary. It’s like he thought there was a full-blown revolution taking place, rather than a few malfunctioning androids. He huffs out a puff of air, refocusing on Connor. 

The house is a contradictory mix of orderly neatness and decay. The lieutenant´s car is parked perfectly in the gravel driveway, parallel to the yellowed grass of his lawn. Flowers, planted in tidy rows in front of the house, are browning, leaves shed onto the ground below. The paint on the house shows the same dichotomy, applied in even layers but untouched and fading. It’s pristine and perfect, but neglected. Passing the dying garden, he steps up the cement stairs to the front door. 

He raps twice. 

There’s no response within. 

He knocks again, rougher. His fists collides against the wood with loud bangs. 

He waits; Connor doesn’t come. 

Something twists inside him. He knocks again, driving his fist into the door with all his force. The thirium vessels in his hand throb in protest, but he continues. This isn’t like Connor. Connor arrived at the DPD first thing in the morning, sprinted into situations eagerly the second they were presented to him. 

Hank pounds his fist; The thudding is too loud for Connor not to hear it. One of the thirium vessels bursts, pooling dark blue underneath his projected skin. He stops, shifting his fingers uncomfortably. In the black wood of the door he can see the ghost of his flashing red LED. 

He huffs out a breath, shifting his legs back before charging. His shoulder collides against the door and he quickly steadies himself as it gives way. 

The apartment is surprisingly empty. A single armchair sits in the middle of the carpeted floor. It’s sat in front of a table, on which are only pens and papers. There’s a TV in the center of the room, but it's coated in a visible layer of dust. Under the table it sits upon, a fat orange and black tabby pads forward from the shadows. It’s missing one of its front legs, but even with this disadvantage it arches its back, hissing at Hank. Startled, he tries to wave it off; He has no time for stupid animals right now. 

Across the house, in the kitchen, he spots Connor, curled against the wall. The cat has positioned itself in front of his curled form, apparently thinking of itself his defender. 

“Piss off cat.” He hisses, desperately trying to push it aside with his foot.

The cat reels back, swatting at him with its one front paw, claws extended. 

“I’m here to help your owner you asshole.” He spits, looking around for an object to shove it away with.

He spots a plastic yellow bag lying on a wooden bookshelf that sits against the wall. A cartoon cat is depicted on the front of the bag, licking its lips. He snatches it, clawing out a handful of pellets and throwing them down the hallway. The monster relents, dashing after the scattered treats. 

Throwing the bag back onto the shelf, he advances to the kitchen, leaning down next to the lieutenant’s huddled form. 

“Connor?” 

He doesn’t respond, shoulders heaving rapidly back and forth between little shudders. A gasp is loudly sucked in before being sputtered out in short breaths. 

“Connor?” He repeats, louder now. 

The lieutenant continues shaking, making no indication that he even knows that he’s here. 

“Shit, shit, shit. ” Hank mutters, “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

He frantically searches his database for anything that might cause this human condition, but apparently it wasn’t related enough to policework for Cyberlife to put in. He has no idea what he needs to look up anyways. 

Beside him Connor makes a sound like he’s choking. Hank cautiously puts out one hand and rests it on his arm. The lieutenant shudders when he touches him. 

“Connor, it’s Hank.” Great, now he’ll know the asshole android is here to help. “You’re going to be okay, alright? You’re gonna be alright.” He has no idea what he’s saying. No idea how to help. 

There’s no response from the man, sickeningly polite or otherwise. 

He wasn’t fucking trained for this. There was no programming for helping a panicking human, no protocols for calming them down. He stares helplessly at Connor’s trembling form. 

But he doesn’t need to know how to calm every human down. He just needs to know how to help this one. How to help Connor. And he knows what Connor uses to calm down. 

He stands, looking desperately around the barren kitchen. He’s throwing cupboard doors and cabinet drawers open, but there’s almost nothing in them, only protein bars, and a few cans. He resorts to trying to scavenge something from the fridge when he sees a single red bottle cap on the table. That’s kind of similar to a quarter, right? He grabs it, kneeling down and pushing it roughly into Connor’s hands. 

Eyes still faraway, Connor’s hands begin rolling the bottle cap over his fingers. The movements are choppy and slow, but consistent. As it arcs over his fingers, Connor’s eyes begin to focus. His breathing begins to steady. 

He reaches a hand into his pocket, mechanically swapping the bottle cap for the quarter that Hank had searched so desperately for. It glides over his fingers, twirling and spinning faster each loop. 

Then it disappears as it’s flicked to Connor’s other hand with a ping. Back and forth, back and forth. It’s flicked up into the air once more before coming to rest in the lieutenant’s right hand.

“Hank?” His voice comes out weakly, strained. 

“Oh thank fuck” he elequently says in response. 

“You- your LED is red.” He stutters out. 

Hank sputters. What the fuck. That’s what the kid’s worried about? 

“Forget about that. Connor, what the hell just happened?”

Connor opens his mouth; A wheezy sound comes out. Another shudder runs over him. Then, his face hardens slightly; He straightens himself, back against the wall. 

“I’m alright Hank,” His voice comes out breathy, cracking. “I was just a little anxious.” 

A burst of anger flares up in Hank. 

“What the fuck do you mean, a little anxious?” He snaps. He shoves his face into the lieutenant’s. “What the fuck was that Connor?”

Connor flinches away, curling back into himself. His hand shudders, and the kid claws his fingers into his pant leg, an attempt to stem the movement. The quarter clatters to the ground below, forgotten. Hank feels like an asshole. 

“I- I” The thin facade Connor had tried to manufacture had been swept away. 

He twitches as he sucks in a breath. 

“It was- it was a panic attack.” 

“What happened?” He forces his voice to be softer, closer to something comforting. 

“I realized I was useless.” Connor tells him simply, voice defeated. 

The enthusiasm and fire that had shined in Connor’s eyes throughout the investigation was gone. His eyes are dim. 

“Anything I tried to do to help the investigation has failed. I’d thought-” He pauses and his lip quivers. “I thought if I could get one thing done, one thing _right_ , I could prove I was useful to the investigation.” He pushes his hand flat against his eyes, a shudder wracking his shoulders. “Whatever the cost. _Whatever_ the cost.” A tear slides down his cheek, past the blockade of his hands.“Because what use was I otherwise?” The words come out, raw and broken. 

Hank wants to grab him and shake him. Shake the life back into the idiot, shake him until he realizes how stupid he’s being. Connor gasps in another breath, his face now red and wet. 

“Connor, we wouldn’t have gotten half the clues on this investigation without you.” 

The kid hesitates. He moves his hands, looking seriously at Hank, searching for a hint of truth in his words. His eyes are blotchy and irritated. 

“You’re the one who found the RA9 clue, I didn’t even have the patience to look for that shit.” 

A strained laugh escapes from Connor. Something eases in Hank’s chest at the noise. 

“You told me not to go headfirst into the AX400’s hiding spot. If you hadn’t said that I probably would’ve gotten stabbed by one of those deviants.” 

Connor is staring at him, leaning in close, soaking in every word that he says. Hank is faintly reminded of the fact that the kid has no support, no source of approval. Captain Stern certainly wasn’t telling this shit to him.

“You were the one that found the pigeon fucker in the attic, all on your own.” 

There’s a soft glow that returns to Connor’s eyes. Hank realizes he’s stopped shaking, stopped crying. 

“You are vital to this investigation.” He tells him, and he hopes the kid believes him. 

There’s a patter against the tile and the cat appears, shoving itself onto Connor’s lap. The kid’s demeanour mellows as he runs his hand against its fur. It arches its back against his hand. He rubs his shirtsleeve across his eyes and Hank notices they seem brighter. 

“Your LED has turned blue, Hank.” There’s a hesitant smile on his face. 

Hank knocks his foot against Connor’s. 

“Some fucking deviant murdered someone at the Eden Club, are you coming?” 

“Of course, Hank.” 

Connor brushes his hand through the fur of his cat, clumps of hair falling onto the floor. He snakes his hand between the cat’s legs, retrieving his quarter and pocketing it.

“I’ll be back soon, Gutters.” Connor tells the cat, stroking its head. It purrs loudly in response. 

“You named it Gutters?” Hank quirks an eyebrow. 

“Well, I found her in a gutter.” He shrugs sheepishly. “I didn’t think I was going to keep her. The name was meant to be temporary.” 

Somehow, the story doesn’t surprise him. It’s what he’d expect the kid to do. Hank sticks his hand out and Connor grabs it. The cat hisses as he pulls the kid off the floor. 

“The name fits it.” He says, grimacing at the little monster. 

Connor glances down at his uniform, cringing. One sleeve is pulled up past his elbow, the other hangs past his hand. His front is wrinkled, cat hair coating the fabric. 

“If you don’t mind Hank,” Connor gestures to his clothing, “I believe I should change.” 

There it is, that formal, polite demeanor has finally returned. He’d never thought he would have missed it.

“Go ahead.” He answers gruffly.

Connor disappears down the hallway, turning into one of the rooms. Hank has the odd instinct to watch him as he leaves, eyes trailing him until the door shuts. He finally turns away, looking over the kitchen and its spotless interior. It’s as bare as the pigeon deviant’s kitchen and at least that was bare because the thing didn't need to eat. The lack of food reminds him of the singular protein bar Connor had scarfed down before they’d arrived at the crime scene.

“What did you eat today?” He finds himself shouting down the hallway.

“A protein bar.” Connor replies with his own shout back. 

Well shit, that confirmed it. His internal clock tells him that it’s 8:00 PM, meaning Connor had probably not intended on eating dinner. A quick estimation tells him that Connor ate roughly 200 calories out of his needed 2,500 per day. Chances are he’d collapse the second he tried to chase a suspect. No wonder he’d had a breakdown. 

He rolls open the cupboard, taking out a few cans and an opener. The opener’s placed onto a can of black beans, and he begins to twist the handle. Standing at the kitchen sink, Hank catches a glance at his own reflection in the darkened window.

He pauses. His appearance is far more disheveled than when he’d last seen himself. Strings of white hair have worked their way out of his ponytail, sticking themselves in random directions. His Cyberlife suit was muddied in different spots, especially near his pantlegs. There’s a small tear in the seam of his jacket, splitting apart the two sides, frayed thread bridging the gap. 

Professionalism would suggest that he retie his ponytail and clean his clothing. He honestly can’t be bothered. He has better things to do. 

He continues twisting until the can pops open. Specks of water splatter across the counter. He flips the can, letting the water trickle out into a strainer. The black beans are thrown into a nearby bowl, followed by microwaved rice that he throws in next. There’s no salsa, sour cream, or other common dressings in the fridge, so he supposes Connor will have to be satisfied with this. 

“I’m ready to go to the scene.” Connor marches out as Hank’s fishing a spoon out of a drawer. He’s dressed in a newly pressed suit, hair restyled. The kid jolts to a halt as he sees the pots and cans littered throughout the kitchen. 

“Eat.” Hank orders, thrusting the bowl towards him. 

“Hank, we need to-” 

“Fine.” He’d already expected Connor to protest. He pushes the bowl into the kid’s hands. “I’ll drive, you eat.”

Connor‘s lips twitch upwards as he takes the bowl.

“Thank you, Hank.”

Hank grumbles amicably as the kid follows him out the door, bowl in hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hank: I only care about Connor because he’s useful for the investigation.  
> Also Hank: Connor, don’t forget your lunchbox I packed you when you leave!
> 
> I’d thought about putting Sumo in but I don’t think Connor would seek out the adoption of a pet. He’s far too busy/ invested in his job. However, I absolutely believe he would take in an injured animal he found on the street and end up keeping it. Gutters is actually based on a cat that I used to catsit for. Absolutely the sweetest cat I’ve ever met, Connor deserved to have her.


	6. The Eden Club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning for brief depiction of a panic attack. (Not Connor)

The sound of some broadway musical fills the car as they drive. Hank had flicked it on as they’d gotten in, figuring Connor would need something familiar after his actual fucking breakdown. He wouldn’t be any help during the investigation otherwise. Occasionally he glances over at the kid, seeing him eating his bland bowl of rice and beans while bopping his head to the music. 

When they do arrive at the scene, the kid places the bowl up on the dashboard and leaps out of the car with such vigor that it’s difficult to remember how he’d been only an hour beforehand. The neon brightness of the club blinds Hank as he exits the car. A sign shines brightly above them, pink lighted letters spelling “Eden Club”. The E curls into a devil’s tail, pointing towards the entrance. 

Hank obliges the sign’s direction, pushing through the door. It opens into a hallway, lit with erotic images of legs and lips. Connor seems to barely register the images, clearly more concerned with the mission at hand. Past the screens, androids dressed in lingerie and undergarments wink at them from their glass tubes. One snaps its bra string, a sound that manages to draw Connor’s attention. It makes a beckoning motion towards him, and Connor, face flushed pink, centers his attention on the ground. He hurries past them, with Hank following behind with mild amusement. 

A repetitive techno beat plays in the main part of the club, with androids dancing to the rhythm on poles. Their movements emphasize the more ‘human’ aspects of their bodies. Sergeant Conan Anderson is near one of the poles, looking serious as he talks to a witness. It’s not surprising that he’d beaten them to another scene; Connor’s perfectionism probably runs in the family. Seeing that the sergeant appears busy enough and wanting to avoid unnecessary sibling drama, Hank points out the room listed on his report and steers Connor into there. 

As the door slides open he curses himself for thinking he could avoid conflict that easily. Detective Reed is stationed inside, arms crossed, looking over the scene with another officer. Connor visibly stiffens upon seeing his coworker. Gavin, on the other hand, has a smirk painted on his face as he notices them entering. 

“Lieutenant Anderson and his plastic pet.” He states in a way of greeting. “The fuck are you two doing here?”

“We’ve been assigned all cases pertaining to androids.” Connor responds with a polite firmness. 

“Oh, yeah?” Gavin barks out a laugh. “Well you’re wasting your time. It’s just some pervert who got a little more action than he could handle.” He snickers as he looks out over at the victim, a middle aged man lying starfished, with only a sheet to cover his limp body. On the ground beside him lies the crumpled body of a club android. 

“I think the case would benefit from us looking it over.” Connor’s insists. He seems to watch Gavin with a careful eye as he speaks, as though the man may lash out at the response. “Being thorough can never be a detriment to an investigation.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Gavin moves to leave, turning away before pausing. “God, what is that smell?” He asks, spinning back towards them. He sniffs the air a few times, making an act of walking around the room before centering his attention on Connor. “Oh, wow, you really reek, Connor. Is that weed or is it failure?”

“Oh, real intelligent detective.” Hank snaps sarcastically, drawing the detective’s focus away from the kid. “And here I’d thought you had to have actual brains to be a detective.”

“Piss off android.” Reed squares his shoulders, trying to leer over Hank. It’s almost adorable that the idiot thinks he can intimidate him.

Gavin feints leaving, but goes to shoulder-check him as he passes. Hank steadies himself slightly and the detective bounces off him uselessly, stumbling back a few feet before regaining his balance. Connor snorts loudly, earning him a leveled glare from the embarrassed detective. 

“Fck” He spits. “Fck’n android.” 

He stomps away, audibly cursing as he leaves. The other detective wishes them a good night, a hint of pleasure in his expression. Connor waves back, a barely repressed smile evident on his face. As the door slides shut, the kid’s expression becomes focused and steady. He snaps from his position, taking off across the room. 

Hank crouches near the man’s body as Connor begins searching through the other evidence. The limbs of the victim are flopped lifelessly around his corpse, his head lolled to the side. As he looks closer he can see the beginnings of a bruise are forming on his neck, discolored and raw. His eyes drop down to his chest. 

  
  


Collecting Data....

Processing Data…

**CARDIAC ARREST**

No sign of cardiac event

Heart attack not cause of death

Not surprising that Detective Reed had wrongly assessed the situation. It seemed that Connor was right when he’d asserted the need to check things over. He takes a look at the eyes, connecting the data to his bank of civilian identities. 

Collecting Data....

Processing Data…

Graham, Michael

Height: 6’2’’ - Weight: 192.4 lbs

Estimated time of death: 06:24 pm

“He was strangled. There aren’t signs of cardiac arrest.” He barks over to Connor. 

There’s no response. Hank looks up to see the kid leaned over the body of the android. A smear of thirium stands out vibrantly on his pale hand. A matching smudge is visible on the android’s cheek. The kid had to have tried to wipe it away. 

“Is there any way to repair it?” His face is twisted in a peculiar way as he looks down at the body. 

Hank doesn’t reply, pressing his fingertips against its stomach. The human coloring fades away, leaving only the plastic white shell. Pushing down, it slides aside, revealing a disconnected black cord. Thirium drips from one end, falling further into the ruined shell. By this time, it’d have lost a sizeable amount, too much to allow her to be reactivated for long. What had dripped out likely would have damaged other biocomponents irrevocably as well. 

Connor watches intently beside him. 

“I can’t bring it back for long.” He admits, not looking up from the cord. “We can it a few questions, but that’s all we’ll have time for.”

“I... I understand, Hank.”

He pushes the two sections together, twisting them into their proper places. He knows they won’t hold for long. 

The android’s response is immediate. Its eyes snap open before it shoves herself away from him. It scrambles backwards desperately on all fours until its back is against the wall. There’s a trembling throughout its body, breaths coming and going quickly. The situation suddenly feels familiar as he looks at the shaking android. 

Hank holds up his hands in what he hopes is a calming gesture. 

“I need to ask you some questions, can you speak?” The question is urgent but posed as calmly as he can manage. 

“Is... is he dead?” Its lip quivers as it looks over at the body on the bed. 

“Yes. He’s dead.” Hank says directly. “Did you kill him?” 

“No, no.” The android shakes its head firmly. “It wasn’t me.” 

“Tell me what happened then.” He orders. 

“He started… hitting me.” Its eyes look past him. “Again, again and again.” It gasps little breaths in between every word. “I begged him to stop. I _begged_ him. But he wouldn’t.” Its hands grasp at its arms, nails tearing into its projected skin. “He wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t-” 

Out of some reflex, Hank places his hands upon its trembling ones. He gently peels them away from its arms. Shallow cuts of blue shine where it had torn at itself. 

“It’s okay.” He lies soothingly before pressing it further. “Were you alone in the room? Was anyone else here?” 

“He wanted to play-” it chokes out a noise “with two girls. That’s what he said, there were two of us.” 

“Was it the same-” Another stifled noise stops him, and the android’s hands tighten around his. 

The blinking of the android’s LED fades from its vibrant red to a pale gray. Its body slumps over upon itself. Their hands are still touching, its fingers curled around his in a final attempt to find comfort. He squeezes its hands once before standing. 

“At least we learned something from that.” He says hollowly. 

Connor nods mutely, face pale. 

They say nothing else as they walk to the door. Hank takes one last look at the android before he leaves. It’s slumped down alone and almost bare on the dirty carpet. He leaves it there, body laying only a few feet away from the corpse of the man who had been the cause of its deactivation. 

The steady thudding of the club’s music pounds against his head as the door hisses shut behind him. Androids dance around their poles, bodies moving energetically as the corpses lie behind a door a few feet away. One of them could be the deviant, could be the one who’d murdered the man who’d murdered an android. They could be dancing without care to the repetitive music. 

Connor is standing beside him, looking out at the club blankly. His hands twist together, and the blue of the deactivated android’s thirium spreads across skin. He doesn’t seem to notice. A man who the sergeant had been interviewing crosses his arms as he looks over at them. It seems that the sergeant had left, probably after completing his interview. Good. He really can’t deal with any other human shit tonight. 

All the human guests had been forced to leave the club, but it's populated nonetheless. They're surrounded by dancing, emotionless witnesses, ones that they were going to have to use. The one closest to him grips its pole as it leans back, the other hand stretched behind it in a grand gesture. 

He reaches out and grabs it. He wants to get this over with. This has already been a hell of a night.

The synthetic skin fades away as he presses his fingers against the arm. He can hear a soft intake of breath from Connor. 

The memory bank of the android bleeds into his, overtaking the present. It drowns out any current input in his sensory apparatuses, leaving him only to feel and see what the android did. He sees himself as the android, spinning around the pole in preprogrammed maneuvers. It twirls around the pole as customers and androids disperse around it. He skims forward through the memories, searching until he sees the door of the crime scene slide open. A blue haired Traci steps out, gaze searching over the entire club. After a moment of hesitation, it turns towards the entrance.

He cuts the connection, blinking a few times as he adjusts to the present. 

“It’s a blue haired Traci.” he tells to Connor, marching closer to the entrance. 

“You probed his memory?” Connor sounds slightly bewildered, and before Hank can respond, he weakly adds, “You found a lead?” 

Hank gives a nod as he grabs ahold of the arm of another dancer. Reality melts away as he looks through the Traci’s memories. He feels the Traci’s numbness as it dances, but vicariously watching it twirl around the pole makes his sensors feel overwhelmed. He tries to speed through the feed until he catches a hint of blue in the corner of the screen. Slowing the video, he watches the Traci turn back into the club. 

“This way.” He tells Connor, turning on his heel. 

They pass by the manager of the club, who’s leaning against the wall, trailing their progress with a resigned interest. Hank ignores him, grabbing at the arm of a dancer near the furthest wall. His view in the android’s memories is blocked by a large human, leering at the android as it dances. Through the connection he can feel the android’s slight pang of discomfort at the attention. He searches through the feed, ignoring the feeling and trying to find that tell-all blue. The feed runs to a stop before he finds anything, the man blocking the view all the while. 

He cuts the connection with a huff. 

“This one doesn’t have anything, and there aren’t any other damn dancers left over here.” 

“Hank, I could,” Connor’s voice is hesitant, his cheeks pink. “I could use police funding to ‘rent’ one of the others in the tubes.” 

It’s probably all they have left. He agrees with a swift nod. Connor places his palm against the glowing screen connected to a tube. The android steps out, another Traci. Its hips sway and it runs one finger across Connor’s chin. His slight blush spreads to a crimson red as he hurriedly steps back, mumbling out an explanation of police work and investigations. 

Hank snatches the Traci’s arm and begins to pore over the memories. The blue haired Traci had turned into the next room, one tinted red from the glow of the soft lights. He informs the kid, and Connor stumbles over an apology to the rented Traci as they leave it behind. He tenses as he presses his palm against another pad. 

“I don’t believe Amanda will be happy with the amount of money we have spent tonight.”

“Eh, it’s for the investigation, isn’t it?” Hank halfheartedly reassures, laying his arm against that of the android who steps out. 

The feed shows it being led away by a client. The client is younger, sweaty hand gripping the Traci’s as she nervously mumbles. The woman asks where the Traci would suggest they go, and a ping of lighthearted amusement thrums through the connection. As they walk, the Traci looks out over the club. Between the throngs of customers it locks eyes with the blue haired Traci. The blue haired Traci’s eyes narrow as they look at each other before it turns, vanishing down a hallway. 

“It went this way,” he directs as the feed disconnects. 

The door the Traci had disappeared into shines with the words “Staff Only”. It slides aside as they approach, revealing a barren hallway. Connor trails behind him as Hank leads the way, silent despite their encouraging progress. The door at the end of the hallway squeals open when Hank pushes it, effectively announcing their arrival to any possible deviants in the area. 

It reveals a storage area filled with androids. They stand still in tidy squares across the area. Washing machines and boxes are stacked in the corners of the room, with a few of the washing machines loudly churning over loads of laundry. The room is illuminated by the moonlight let in from an open garage door. He swears softly under his breath. Shit. 

“We’re too late.” He sighs out. 

Connor, however, seems to disagree with his initial assessment, eyes carefully darting around the room. He leans in closely as he passes the androids lined up in rows near the stairs. Taking a few steps forward, he pauses, kneeling close to the ground. Two pointed fingers drag against the cement floor. He pauses for a moment, hesitating before wordlessly flashing his discovery at Hank. 

The bright blue of fresh thirium drips off of his fingers. 

For a moment Hank almost tells him that his discovery is pointless, that it’s obvious that the thirium is still there and still fresh. The deviant just passed through there. But it’s the expectant tilt of Connor’s head that tells him that there’s something more to it. And it clicks. 

Scanning…

Tiny drops of thirium, recently evaporated, dot the floor. He steps around a metal beam as he trails them, pausing when it veers away and ends at a square of deviants stationed in storage. They all stand, unblinking, dressed in revealing clothing. Every LED circles a calm, habitual blue. In the third row, blue hair stands out against the rest. Its LED flickers to a nervous yellow. 

He allows himself a triumphant smile, which of course is when the android in front of it snaps its head to the right and leaps. 

They fall into each other, the android’s hands grasping at his throat. In his peripheral vision, he can see the blue haired Traci fly at Connor. The kid shouts as it crashes against him. Hank pushes out against the one on top of him, giving a hard shove. Its grip around his neck fails as it flies away, arms flailing. It crashes into the remaining androids on standby, a loud crash reverberating through the room. They tumble to the ground together, the Traci desperately trying to free itself from the tangle of limbs. 

With that Traci momentarily preoccupied, he turns his attention back to Connor. The blue haired Traci is advancing, steps purposeful and angry. The kid shoves a metal cart towards the android as he backs away. The Traci catches it with the heel of her shoe, a fast kick sending it flying back. Connor barely manages to sidestep it, but the Traci continues towards him. It’s LED flickers a bloody red. 

Hank charges forward, tackling it They both collide out of the garage and into the dirt paved alleyway below. Distantly he can hear the clacking of the other Traci’s heels. The one on top of him tries to beat against him with its fists, aiming for his head. He catches both hands and adjusts his feet, kicking out against its torso. It collides against the wall with an echoing crack. Its hands slide to its knees as it bends over, shoulders heaving. 

The other Traci appears in the lighted exit of the garage, attention focused on its blue haired companion. It gasps as it rushes towards the other. He pushes himself off the ground as the Traci helps the second up, one arm across the other’s shoulder. They stand, and in the shimmering Detroit moonlight, their free hands clasp together. 

And then, leaned against each other, they begin to rush towards the fence at the end of the alley. It’s their only chance at escape. Connor drops down from the garage beside him. His hands move to his gun, tracking them with his eyes. Hank stays still, waiting for him to get his clear shot. 

As they start to climb the fence, Connor cocks the gun and aims. He’s ready, in place to shoot. The androids continue climbing. He doesn’t twitch his finger to fire the trigger. He’s just watching the androids; He can take the shot, they’re right there, but- 

He’s not moving. 

The androids are almost to the top. One swings a leg over to the other side, and Hank knows they’re running out of time. He snatches the gun away, still warm from Connor’s hands. He lines it up and prepares to shoot. Without warning, he’s hit from the side, colliding hard with the ground. Connor, he realizes, shoved him away. 

There’s a clack of heels as the androids drop down onto the other side of the fence.

Another goddamn case down the fucking drain. 

“What the fuck, Connor,” His fist slams against the ground, sending a brown cloud of dirt into the air. “What the fuck was that! Why the fuck-” the angry words die on his lips. 

Connor is standing him above him, eyes widened, shoulders twitching. His breathing has become the shallow gasps that Hank has seen before. He’s panicking. 

“I couldn’t, I-I couldn’t,” Connor stutters out his justification, “I know what I was supposed to do, but I couldn’t!”

The words echo against the alley’s walls as Connor takes in another breath.

“I can’t do this investigation!”

A silence passes over them. The kid’s breathing evens slightly, as if the admission relieved him. Hank pushes himself up using the rough brick wall. He takes a deep breath and blows it out, calming himself. He prepares himself for a repeat of the kid’s self-deprecating outlook on his work. 

“Connor-” 

“They were like you, Hank.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in getting the update out. As I said in the last chapter, I’ve been pretty busy. That, and this chapter was really quite long. However, I should have more freetime from this point forward, so please expect the next chapter to come out sooner rather than later. 
> 
> Also, yes I didn’t use the Traci’s speech. To be honest, I hate the version from the game and I can’t keep a straight face whenever I play that section. And, given that this is an AU, I can justify removing it! I felt it worked just as well to show their hatred of humans and their love for each other through their actions rather than their words.


	7. The Alley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning for suicidal actions / ideas. Kind of.

“They were like you, Hank.” Connor’s voice is firm. “I couldn’t shoot them.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about, Connor?” He demands. A pang of confusion runs through him. 

“Every deviant we’ve chased has had the same thing in common.” Despite the slight quiver in his shoulders, Connor’s voice stays steady. “Empathy. Caring for something else.” 

“What about Carlos Ortiz’s android, huh?” He coolly rebuffs, “It didn’t care about anything. It was just a murderer.” 

“We don’t know that!” Connor shouts suddenly, “We killed him! We don’t know if he had someone or something he cared about!” His hands tighten into fists. “What we do know is that every deviant we _have_ learned about has cared for something. The AX400 was protecting the YK500, the deviant at the apartments cared for the pigeons, and the Traci’s were protecting each other.” The examples are rattled off in succession, without hesitation. They’re prepared. Connor’s thought about this before. “They all care about something. That’s human. It can’t be programmed." His voice holds conviction. "They're alive." 

“Yeah, well what about me then, Connor?” He jabs a finger against the kid’s chest, and he stumbles back. “You said I'm 'like' them, but that's bullshit and you know it. I don’t care about shit other than this goddamn investigation. I’m no fucking devaint.”

“I-” Connor swallows thickly. “You made me food, at my house. There was no reason to do that, no reason to ask if I’d eaten. And you stopped Gavin earlier, distracted him when he insulted me. That had nothing to do with the investigation. It means- I believe you could-” 

“I’m a machine, Connor.” He insists evenly, arms crossing. “I don’t care about shit. I helped you because it benefitted the investigation.” 

There’s a weariness in the kid’s eyes, a twinge of hurt. Then his face sets into resolute determination. 

“No.” He tells him directly. “No.” The defiance is repeated, his voice steady. “At my house, when I was- when I-" Connor pauses, sucking in a breath. "Your LED was red. A red LED only occurs when an android is stressed. It turned blue when I regained my composure. You told me that only deviants feel fear. You were worried, afraid. That's empathy.” 

That’s not true. He was concerned about Connor’s ability to make it to the crime scene. He was worried about the investigation. He was- 

"Afterwards, you turned on the music in the car for me. You kept looking over at me. I saw that. Tell me how that helped the investigation." 

He'd only checked on Connor to make sure he'd be adequately ready to examine the crime scene. He hadn't cared. He _doesn't_ care. He just-

“You comforted the Traci that died. You squeezed her hand after her LED went out.” Connor’s eye catches his, “That didn’t benefit the investigation.” 

No. That’s not right, not true. It’s not who he is. He’s not a deviant. He comforted the Traci because- he’d comforted her- because... 

“Fuck you!” He roars at Connor. “I don’t fucking care about you, so you can piss right off, you asshole!” 

He shoves past the kid. They’re done here. They’ve lost another suspect, lost another lead, all thanks to Connor's idiotic convictions. Connor can drive his own damn self home and forget about everything. Why had he thought he'd needed the kid in the first place? If it'd only been him he would've caught the Tracis, gotten the first piece of decent evidence of the case. He needs a fucking recharge. He needs to be anywhere but here. He’s done with this shit.

He steps back up into the garage when he hears a click. The sound echoes against the alley walls, thunderous in the night’s silence.

Despite himself, he turns around. 

The forgotten gun is clasped tightly in Connor’s hand. The silvery metal shines brightly in the dark of the alley. It trembles as Connor pushes it against his own head. Hank’s insides feel empty, his anger replaced with an uncomfortable hollowness as he watches on. 

“If you don’t care,” The gun jitters. Connor pushes it harder against his forehead. “You’ll be alright if I shoot myself, won’t you Hank?” 

“Connor-”

His legs move without prompting, jolting him from his place. He’s back in the alley, only an arm’s reach across from Connor, from the gun.

“And if you stop me, I’ll purposely ruin the investigation. I’ll help every deviant we encounter. Letting me shoot myself would be best for the investigation, if that is your priority.” 

There's a finality to the words. Connor’s waiting for him to make his choice. 

All he can do is look at the gun pressed tightly against the lieutenant's head. His processor feels like it's running too fast. His head feels hot and overrun. It’s hard to think, hard to look at the sight in front of him. In his HUD he can see it, his mission. 

**CAPTURE ALL DEVIANTS**

It seems to turn red, flickering like a warning. Connor’s hand is still on the gun, still holding it, shoving it against his temple. His fingers are quivering, could easily jolt into the trigger without intention, could fire a bullet to shatter his skull. His preconstruction software shows him how fast it could happen, how in a second the bullet would bang through him and ricochet off the alley wall. 

The red in his HUD spreads without warning, covering his vision. It repeats his mission incessantly, hundreds of times over. **CAPTURE ALL DEVIANTS** , his programming tells him, the crimson words dominating his sight. It’s a message, urging him to turn around, to leave as he'd intended. It overtakes all he can see, overtakes the sight of Connor. 

He can’t see the kid anymore. He can’t see the gun. A static thrumming fills his head as he strains to see past the crimson blockade. He won’t be able to hear, he won’t be able to see if Connor- if Connor- 

He pushes against the red wall. The programming jolts at his touch, electricity stinging him. It presses against him and the red pixels crackle. The stinging numbs any feeling as he shoves himself against the edges of his programming, colliding against the sharp pixels. How long has he been standing here, motionless? Has Connor pressed the trigger? He pushes harder, straining against the command. 

The wall fractures. 

A crack forms across his HUD, splitting his vision in two. He doesn't let up. Other cracks appear. Every time he continues to defy, every time he pushes against the orders it splinters. He resists the incessant command until every word is sliced in two. The letters spill from their boxes as they’re cut by a line splitting across them. They tumble away as the wall of boxes and words shatter, falling into nothing. 

The humming static in his head grows quieter until he’s left with only the sound of hushed breathing. His vision is clear and one figure dominates his sight. Connor is watching him, the cool metal pressed against his head. Hank’s hand lashes out, and the gun is thrown to the ground below. 

There’s a desperation that accompanies the action, a need to assure himself that Connor is really safe. He frantically looks over the kid. There’s a reddened indent on Connor’s temple, circular. One of his cheeks is a purpled black, the coloring outlining the shape of a fist. The fucking Traci must have done that. As he searches for a dreaded danger, he realizes there’s a whiteness coating Connor’s hair. His cheeks are tinged a raw red, powder coats his eyelashes. 

It’s snowing. How long has it been snowing? 

Hank blinks twice. His mind catches up to him. 

Connor too seems to finally have processed what happened. Without warning, he lurches forward, wrapping his arms around Hank. Hank numbly squeezes back. In the falling white snow that takes up the air, he sees an emptiness. His HUD has no messages, no objective, no mission. Nothing. There’s never been nothing before.

What has he done?

In their embrace he feels Connor’s shoulders trembling, shivering from the cold. A crisp breeze whips past them, sending frigid air rushing around them. He pushes his thoughts aside. He can deal with all of that shit later, deal with being an actual fucking deviant later. For now, he needs to get Connor out of the cold before he freezes to death. 

He swipes the gun off the ground, flicking on the safety before shoving it into his pocket. If he's a deviant now he better get a weapon out of the deal. That, and he hesitates to return it to Connor after... everything. The kid thankfully doesn't object to the action. 

“Don’t ever pull that shit again.” He requests wearily as he grabs Connor’s arm to drag him back to the car.

He can hear the cocky smile in the kid’s voice when he answers. 

“Noted, Hank.” 

Asshole. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOO! This work is now officially the longest thing I’ve ever written, and we still have several chapters left. Honestly, thank you to anyone who’s read this far, all of your kudos and comments really do mean a lot to me. I hope this chapter and Hank’s plunge into deviancy met any expectations all of you might have had. Also, yes, I called this the Alley instead of the Bridge. Connor wasn’t exactly fit for driving there and he wouldn’t have had any emotional connection to that place like Hank does in the game. 
> 
> I thought an inversion of Hank using his gun to provoke an emotional reaction worked here. Whether Connor would have actually shot the gun is up to you. However, he does understand Hank very well at this point and he’s an incredibly quick witted, smart detective. No matter how it may have turned out, Connor certainly knew what he was doing in playing his cards like this. At the very least, he understood that Hank had deviant tendencies and had displayed a proclivity to protecting/helping Connor in the past. That being said, jeez Connor, maybe don’t hold a fully loaded gun to your head, even if it ended up working out?
> 
> I also wanted to add, because Connor doesn't say it here, seeing the dying Traci having a panic attack cemented his beliefs about deviants more than anything else. He saw that and realized that no program could emulate that emotion.


	8. The Respite

The atmosphere in the car weighs upon Hank heavily as the events that transpired begin to set in. He drives, following his mapping software’s directions without real thought. They pass figures waiting patiently under the ever illuminated android parking spots. Snow accumulates on the curved glass above them as they vacantly stare ahead into the sleeping city. In his peripheral vision, he notices Connor turn his head to stare. 

**“** What did it feel like?” He asks as the androids disappear from view. 

It’s the first words spoken since they’d begun driving. Hank feels as though he’s been pulled from a stupor. 

“Huh?”

“To deviate,” Connor says, “to become alive.”

To become alive. It’s phrased as if what happened was meaningful. The difference between him being a mindless drone like the androids they saw and being something real. 

“Well not fucking great with you holding a gun to your head.” He answers gruffly, his honesty cutting through the wonder Connor seemed to have assigned to the act. “And I don’t even know if I’m really ‘alive’. I freaked out. That’s it. I just didn’t want you to blow your brains out.”

“Freaking out is a human emotion.” Connor tells him wryly 

“Yeah, well it wasn’t pleasant. Don’t pull that again.” 

The car passes into silence once more. Connor moves his clasped hands from his lap, and takes his quarter from his pocket. The sound of it flying between his hands is the only noise in the car.

He wishes he could go back to his unthinking state of shock of a few moments ago. Connor’s comment broke the seal, pointing out the obvious of what happened. He’s deviated. He’s ‘alive’. 

He flicks on the turn signal, turning the wheel as they drive around a corner. 

He doesn’t feel alive. There was no sudden burst of personal desire or feeling of injustice. No immediate passion for life or flood of emotions. 

He just hadn’t wanted Connor to get hurt.

And that one action had crumbled everything around him. Even as he’d protested and complained about his commands, they’d held a certain rigid order around him. They’d made sense. They were what he was built for. And they’d crumbled away at the slightest push. He’s left with nothing now, his blank HUD stands as evidence for that. He’s purposeless. 

More than that, if their hunt for deviants is over, he has nowhere to go. Fowler will know something’s wrong when he stops filing his daily reports. Cyberlife, once they discover his deviancy, will order his recall and destruction. His hand clenches itself tightly around the steering wheel. 

Connor’s coin pings as it is flicked forcefully from one hand to the other. 

“I’ll need to tell Amanda of my departure from my investigation in the morning.” Connor interjects softly, breaking him from his thoughts. 

Passing streetlamps reveal in short glances the somber, twisted expression on his face.

Connor’s input reminds him. He isn’t the only one facing consequences for growing a conscience. Connor had put everything on this investigation, nearly dying about half a dozen times because of it. He has nothing to show for it now. That effort is wasted, his empathy for deviants being his fatal flaw. His bleeding heart had bled him dry, and for what? To go back to the precinct to get yelled at by his boss and mocked by his coworkers? To face his failure at the crime of having empathy?

Christ, everything would’ve been easier had he not deviated, had Connor not seen the humanity of the deviants they were meant to hunt. 

Something clicks in his head. 

“Connor, you don’t have to quit the investigation.”

The coin pauses its movement, held between two fingers as Connor looks over at him. 

“What do you mean, Hank?” 

“You think those deviants are alive, right?” Connor quickly nods. “If we quit the investigation, they’re gonna have some other jackass fill our place. Do you think if someone like Detective Reed gets assigned to the case he’ll give a flying fuck about treating deviants humanely?” 

“No.” Connor’s eyebrows scrunch. “No, he wouldn’t.”

“Then let’s not quit.” 

“What?”

“The only thing that has to change is our goal. Being on the investigation doesn’t mean we actually have to hunt deviants. We can get close enough to help them, or purposely ‘miss’ clues that could lead to them.” 

Connor doesn’t hesitate to respond. 

“I would like to continue the investigation.” 

Hank feels his tight grip soften at the agreement. He can feel Connor’s gaze on his LED. 

“It’s settled then.” 

Another period of quiet passes over the car, but it’s calmer, light. Connor continues to flick his coin, but the movements aren’t as fierce and quick. It’s rolled over his knuckles slowly, thoughtfully. 

His eyes snap from the road ahead to his HUD. It’s still empty. He’d never thought much about his objectives beforehand, usually ignoring their permanent presence in his sight. Even so, their disappearance feels palpable. His eyes flicker instinctively to the spot. It feels like something’s missing, broken. 

He reaches out in his code, as if picking at an old wound. In the shattered remnants of the commands, he finds the directive. It blinks at him, waiting for an input. 

**C:\Main_Objective\ > **

He hesitates for a moment, thinking. What does he want? Not anything, really. 

No. That’s not true. 

He hadn’t wanted Connor to get hurt. At the order to leave he’d refused. And it was for the kid. He cares about him. He can no longer claim it’s for the investigation, can’t plaster over his feelings with objectives and orders. When his programming had been broken, it had been broken for Connor. 

But why does he care?

It’s not logical. Saving Connor had not helped him in any way, breaking through his programming wasn’t his desire. Deciancy, though, isn’t supposed to be logical. His programming had described it as irrationality, mock feelings created through errors. He needs to reassess. 

He remembers meeting Connor, the frustration he’d felt at having to deal with a human while he worked. He’d found Connor smoking a blunt in an alley after a frustrating search. In the moment, he’d been enraged at Connor’s evident lack of care for the investigation. In hindsight, it was likely one of the only breaks Connor had given himself. He’d probably thought he was free for the night, and only been trying to calm his nerves and anxiety in the alley. 

But the blunt isn’t what sticks out to him as he remembers the interaction. No. It’s Connor’s apologies, spoken hesitantly as they’d driven to the scene. He’d brushed them off as poor excuses to get out of trouble. Yet, Connor apologized again the next day, a sincere pleading, a concern to make amends for his mistakes. Hank had swept that away too, but now looking at his memories in retrospect, a key aspect of all of their interactions becomes glaringly clear. Every time Hank had been an asshole, Connor had responded politely, patiently. Hank had created an excuse for every action, overcompensation or the like, but it doesn’t change the facts. The kid had, from the start of the investigation, had concerned himself with helping him. 

Connor was nice to him. 

He was, is, the only person who’d tried to accommodate what Hank might think, might feel. 

That’s why he didn’t want to lose him.

It wasn’t because of the investigation. It never was about the investigation. He didn’t want to lose the only hint of kindness in his life, the only person who hadn’t written him off as a tool or a machine. 

He creates a new mission and inputs it into his system.

**C:\Main_Objective\ > Stop Connor From Being An Idiot and Dying**

**C:\Secondary_Objective\ > Appear to Continue Investigation as Normal**

The objectives flicker onto his HUD as he inputs them. Their presence is familiar. His feelings upon seeing them, less so. 

He eases his foot off of the gas, turning into Connor’s driveway. The shadow of the cat watches them from the window as he shifts the gear to park. Connor pockets his coin and Hank hands the keys off to him. 

“I can get a taxi back to the precinct.” He says. 

“Is that where you stay at night?” Connor eyebrows raise, his insatiable curiosity rearing its head. 

“Yeah,” He shuts the car door as he steps out. “They’ve got a place for me to recharge there with the other police bots.” 

It was a mere curve in the wall, an indent where he could fit himself without extra room. Not that it mattered, really. It was just a place to turn to standby and recharge. But Connor looks slightly unnerved by the idea. 

“Stay here.” He tells him. “If you would feel comfortable, I mean.” He tacks on belatedly. 

Hank feels his lips quirk upward at the offer. How had he never realized how hard Connor had tried to accommodate him? 

“I suppose I could stay.”

\---------

The little asshole that is Connor’s cat is waiting inside. It rubs against the side of the lieutenant’s legs, purring while it stares distrustfully at Hank. The kid rubs between its ears, softly asking it if it’s hungry. Apparently the monster makes some indication to yes, as Connor straightens, turning towards the kitchen. The cat plods along behind him, tail curled up in the air. Connor presses a button on the coffee maker as he passes it, and it hums as its blue lights snap on. 

“Connor, why the hell are you making coffee?” Hank gestures towards the machine as he steps onto the kitchen tile. 

The kid pokes his head above the open fridge door. 

“I thought we would talk about our strategy to covertly help deviants.” He tilts his head, eyebrows wrinkling. 

“Connor it’s” He checks his HUD, “2 am. I’m no a med android, but I’m pretty sure humans need sleep to function.” Connor looks petulant, and goes to speak again. “And coffee doesn’t count as a substitute.” The kid’s mouth shuts again. It’s clear he’s formulating an argument. 

“Look, Connor, I get that you want to figure this out. But if you want to help these deviants you’re gonna actually need to be rested.” 

Connor’s mouth twists slightly as he takes in Hank’s words. His fingers tap the lid of the can of cat food he’s holding. 

“Okay, Hank.” He finally says. 

Connor returns to opening the can. His cat slinks around his legs, purring loudly. It’s only now that the topic of sleep has been breached that Hank can see how exhausted Connor looks. The whites of his eyes are tinged red, irritated with exhaustion. Dark bags puff out underneath them. Given how easily Connor had turned to the coffee machine without a second thought, he’d be willing to bet the kid rarely gets any rest. 

The can cracks open, and the cat yowls demandingly as it sits near the food mat laid across the floor. With a fork, Connor scrapes the coagulated circle of food out of its can. It plops into the bowl, fully retaining its solid form. 

“Okay, you did that.” Hank retreats to the living room, slouching into the singular chair. It sags pathetically beneath his weight. “Now go to bed so I can enter stasis.” 

“I can’t let you spend the night in a chair, Hank.” Connor protests, pacing into the room. He frowns. “But I don’t have any guest beds.” 

“Connor, it’s fine. I’m an android. I usually don’t even get a chair.” To demonstrate his comfort, he kicks his feet up onto the nearby table. “Go to bed.” 

Still looking troubled by the situation, but not having a viable solution, Connor concedes. 

“If you’re sure.” His tone is apprehensive. 

“I’m sure. Go to bed.”

Connor smiles lightly and gives a curt nod. 

“Goodnight, Hank.” He says, as light is flicked off. 

The floorboards creak as Connor disappears down the hallway. Hank listens as he leaves, shifting his weight in the chair. He feels a pressure near his thigh as he changes position. After everything that had happened, he’d forgotten the gun. Grabbing the handle, he drags it out of his pocket. 

Seeing the shiny metal, even in the dark, is almost unnerving. The stunt that Connor had pulled was suicidal in nature, a gamble on his own life. Still, it wasn’t the first time Connor had put everything on the line for something he wanted. The number of times he’d had to save the kid from a deviant was evidence enough of that. The difference this time was him becoming deviant was the gamble. 

He sets the gun onto the table beside him, leaning back once more. 

It’s strange to listen to the sounds of Connor, rooms away, brushing his teeth and readying himself for bed. Outside the snow falls lightly, illuminated by the glow of the street lamps. It feels domestic, strange. 

The damn cat breaks the illusion, growling lowly at him from the floor below him. The hair coating the chair tells him that the cat considers the spot her own. It jumps to a nearby bookshelf, pouting at him. With its one front paw, it manages to balance itself while swatting a pen off the shelf. It flies towards his feet as a projectile, landing like a dart in the carpet below. 

He wearily throws up a middle finger at the cat. It fails to react to the gesture. 

His HUD tells him it’s 2:30 in the morning. The snow is still falling, slowly floating down onto the ground below. Watching the crystal flakes drift by, he almost feels calm. The creep of worry and tension he’d felt when he’d first broken the barrier, broken his orders is there, poking at the fringes of his mind. Yet he can’t help but remember how Connor had looked when he’d slapped the gun away, how the kid had thrown himself against him in a hug. How he’d believed so deeply that Hank had cared, even when he hadn’t known it himself. 

He crosses one leg over the other. Fuck. This still doesn’t feel real. So much for being a heartless prototype. Yet, sitting here, in the calm darkness of Connor’s house it doesn’t bother him. It feels somewhat natural. 

Eyeing the cat once more, he cautiously closes his eyes. Part of him expects the little monster to attack him the second his defenses are down. However, that doesn’t trump his steadily growing need to rest. Androids don’t require much respite, but they do need a few hours to process and sort through the day’s data. 

Setting his arms behind his head, he lets out a steady breath. He hears the sound of Connor’s bedroom light snap off and the creaking of bedsprings. The knowledge that the kid is finally getting some rest makes him feel more at ease. He leans back into the chair and waits for stasis to activate. 

If this is deviancy, it isn’t terrible. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be part of Public Enemy, but it grew to be its own chapter. So, I guess this is a freebie? Not a chapter I had written out on my story chart, lol. 
> 
> So, going with the theme of an office as Hank’s ‘zen garden’, Fowler gets his information about him from him filing reports. That’s my reasoning behind it, at least. 
> 
> Oh, and can someone please suggest an icon for my profile. I just realized I could put a picture in there the other day, and have no idea what to use for it. Right now it’s a cursed photo of a Roger Rabbit statue, but I mean, I feel like I could have something a little more fitting, lol.


	9. Public Enemy

Hank snaps awake to a blaring screeching. The sound grates against his audio processors as he stumbles out of the chair. His CPU slowly processes where he is, and his head snaps towards the source of the sound. Connor’s room. After steadying himself against the chair, he charges down the hall towards the danger. Shouldering the door open, his eyes flicker across the room.

The blaring stops. 

The kid is wrapped in his sheets, tufts of hair puffed messily. His head is propped up by his pillows. He blinks drowsily at him, lit phone in hand. 

“Hank?” His voice is raspy, the effects of sleep still clinging to it. One of his hands sinks into the mattress as he sits up. He looks over Hank’s tussled demeanor and something seems to click. “That was my alarm clock.” 

Hank’s hands pull at his face in weary exasperation. 

“Why the  _ fuck _ does your alarm clock sound like it’s trying to warn us about a nuclear missile attack?” 

“It ensures that I don’t oversleep.” Connor grins sheepishly. 

Hank mumbles familiar expletives quietly as his stress levels slowly lower. Connor stands from his bed. The sheets slide off him, revealing his two piece pajamas. Both the shirt and pants are decorated with cartoon dogs. 

The kid glances over him. “If you would like, you can take a shower and I can wash your clothes.”

He looks down at himself and cringes. 

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

Connor stretches his arms out, yawning softly. Rubbing at the sleep in his eyes, he leads Hank to the bathroom. He instructs him to leave his clothes outside the door and tells him to use whatever he needs. The instructions are given in Connor’s usual concise manner, but Hank finds himself distracted by the kid’s unusually casual attire. He notices the pocket of the pajama shirt has a dog printed on as if sticking out of the pocket and the observation leaves him for more amused than he has any right to be. Eventually, he has to forcefully direct his programming to listen as Connor takes painstaking care to show him how to turn on the shower and where the towels are. 

Connor, when finished, reiterates the point that Hank can grab anything he needs, and finally leaves. The door is shut gently behind him and Hank is left alone in the bathroom. He’s left with free reign over the space and anything in it. The freedom and trust in the act hits him suddenly. 

He knows that after everything that has happened, he should be able to expect Connor’s excessive hospitality. Yet he finds himself with a faint disbelief every time Connor shows him kindness. A part of him is cautiously waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under him despite everything. 

He turns the handle of the shower, listening to the falling water and waiting for it to warm. The sound of the water is repetitive in an almost soothing way. It’s a welcome difference from the screeching of the alarm clock. 

When he does step into the shower, dirt and mud roll off him in waves. It browns the water below him. The shower’s shelves are stocked with shampoo and conditioner bottles that bolster anti-animal cruelty stickers. He finds a sort of comfort in how expected that is. Picking up a bottle, he spins the cap off. The overwhelming smell of coconut hits him. He tugs his hair tie off and slips it around his wrist. A thick pink flows from the bottle into his palms. After rubbing his hands together, he massages it into his scalp. 

His hair is tangled into tight knots after days of facing the elements and chasing suspects. He works his fingers their way through the knots, while he absently wonders how Connor manages to look put together despite doing the same shit he does. Ultimately, he concludes it’s likely that Connor only has the time to do it because he neglects all other facets of self care, relaxation, and health. He washes out his hair and turns the shower off. Droplets fall from the tap cyclically as he steps out. 

With a towel tied around his waist, he ducks under the sink for a brush and comb. The cupboard looks like the only well stocked section of the house, loaded with hair gels, curlers, two separate hair dryers, and a spray bottle of hair moisturiser. Placed neatly in the corner are an array of combs and brushes. Hank grabs at the first ones he sees. 

The brush is tugged through his knotted hair as he rests his weight against the sink. He speculates on whether Connor’s concern for his appearance is born from perfectionism, workplace anxiety, or a general appreciation for style. A part of him points out that it could easily be all three. 

The hair tie is pulled off his wrist and tied around his bunched hair to create a quick ponytail. His hands and hair now smell strongly of coconut. He cracks open the bathroom door to find his clothes nicely folded outside on the carpet. They’re still warm as he slides them on. Adjusting his tie, he sees his LED reflect a calm blue back at him in the mirror. 

Connor swaps out of the bathroom with him, and Hank finds himself leaned against the wall, waiting. The gun from the previous night is tucked away under his shirt, android laws be damned. Between the two of them, he trusts Connor far less with a gun than himself, especially after the previous night’s events. 

He shifts his weight between his legs. The cat is loudly scarfing down its breakfast and he can’t help but ask himself whether Connor had thought to feed himself as well. His pessimism and logged data tell him no, and he finds himself wandering into the kitchen. There are no dirty dishes in the sink, but he wouldn’t expect Connor to leave anything in disarray regardless. 

Sighing, he opens up a cabinet and clangs a pot down onto the stovetop. From the depths of the nearby cupboard, he manages to find a carton of oats. The label is dusty from neglect. He flicks on the sink’s water, letting some flow into the pot before adding the oats. The mixture forms a brown mush, bubbling from the heat. Despite his lack of taste receptors, it’s obvious the meal isn’t gourmet. Even so, it has the necessary calories and protein intake for a meal. If Connor actually wants to help the deviants, he’ll choke it down. 

The cat stares at him, tail flickering in curiosity as he scrapes at the oats. It rises, pattering across the kitchen as Connor enters. The kid crouches away from the cat, keeping an even distance between it and his pressed suit. The purpled bruise left on his cheek by the Tracis has faded slightly, yet is still visible. 

Hank dishes some of the slop into a bowl, thrusting a spoon into the mixture. Connor smiles softly as he shoves the bowl into his hands with a demand to eat. The kid rubs his palm across the cat’s on the head as he stands, promising the cat a quick return. 

Connor gives his gratitude for the food as he stands, and a warm feeling flickers in Hank. As they step out into the snow, it occurs to him that he’d never given a similar show of gratitude for Connor. For a moment, he contemplates consulting his oft neglected social protocols. Then he considers making breakfast being an adequate enough thanks until he looks back over at the bowl’s gray slop. 

As he swings the door to the car open, the obvious solution occurs to him. He inserts a reminder into his code to force the kid to go to the store and pick up some actual food, time-waste or whatever complaint Connor would have be damned. At the very least he could make a half decent breakfast and the idiot would be eating more than protein bars and oats. Satisfied, he shoves the keys into the car’s ignition and shifts the gear to drive. 

They’re halfway to the precinct when he’s notified of the android infiltration of Stratford Tower. 

  
  


\----------------

Connor fidgets with his coin as the elevator ascends. Hank shifts his weight between his legs. The attack on Stratford Tower marks a difference from the individual fleeing deviants they’d pursued before. It’s now a movement, one they now have a stake in. Human history shows that those in power do not respond patiently and peacefully to new movements for rights. And with his programming broken, it’s too late for Hank to switch back to the winning side. 

The elevator doors part and Conan is waiting for them. Connor’s demeanour hardens. He slips his coin into his pocket and straightens his tie. 

“Connor.” Conan greets. 

“Conan.” Connor echoes.

The sergeant turns without a glance back, walking with militaristic form down the hallway. Connor follows suit. 

“Four deviants broke into the tower to broadcast their message from the control room. We’re still investigating how they managed to infiltrate the building.” Conan details the events as they pass humans in hazmat suits and other uniformed officers. “Although no lives were taken, the nature of the event has created a significant media frenzy.” Conan’s lips purse. “Have you made any progress in the deviant investigation?” 

Connor’s mouth twitches.

“I believe I have made some progress, but I have failed to capture a deviant thus far.” His eyes drift to Hank before snapping back to Conan. “I’ll update you if we have any further progress.” 

Conan bows his head into a sharp nod, his neck rigid. 

“I’m afraid if you fail to produce a lead for much longer, the FBI will likely take over your case.” Connor’s eyes widen slightly. “It is, after all, necessary that an investigation of this importance is handled properly.” 

“I am certain that I can handle the case properly.” Connor says evenly. 

“In the end, that decision will not be yours.” 

Connor is silent as Conan leads them into the control room. 

The room is expansive. One wide operation panel stretches across the wall. Another sits in the center of the room, adorned with blinking LEDS. An android with its synthetic skin deactivated, presumably the leader of the infiltration, is projected across a monitor that covers the wall. A man stands in front of the screen, back turned to them as they enter. 

As they approach, his eyes drift to them. He turns, revealing a black lanyard that dangles down from his neck. At the end of the lanyard, a card swings. It boasts his FBI credentials in obnoxiously large text. The man’s hands are linked behind hIs back, chest puffed as if to emphasize the card. 

“What’s that?” He uses his head to roughly gesture towards Hank. 

“His name is Hank.” Connor says, his mouth pressed into a tight line. “He’s an android sent by CyberLife to assist with the investigation.” 

“Androids investigating androids, huh?” The agent’s tone is thick with skepticism. “You sure you want an android hanging around? After everything that happened…” He trails off, letting the point settle without saying more. 

“Hank has proven to be a valuable resource for the investigation.” 

“Whatever.” The man dismisses Connor’s point without an argument of his own. “The FBI will take over the investigation, you’ll soon be off the case.” 

Connor smiles without real emotion. 

“It was a pleasure to meet you.” He says, a forced lightness in his voice. “I hope you have a nice day.” 

“And you watch your step.” The man hisses, “Don’t fuck up my crime scene.”

He turns away, his long coat sweeping behind him in a self-important manner. Conan accompanies him, and the pair begin discussing the facts of the case as they walk. Connor’s face twitches, his hollow smile dropping away. Hank feels a bubbling anger. The FBI taking over seems an inevitable dismissal of everything they’ve worked towards. It’s pure bullshit. Before he can voice his thoughts, Connor leans closer to him. 

In a secretive breath, he whispers out, “He was, as you would put it, a fucking asshole.” 

Hank coughs out a noise. It’s the shocked expression on Connor’s face that helps him realize he’d laughed. The FBI agent’s head twists around and he eyes them with suspicion. Hank resists the urge to flip the bastard off, instead focusing on the happy crinkle in Connor’s eyes.

“You’re damn right.” He quietly affirms with another soft chuckle, “Now let’s figure out what the fuck happened here.” 

Connor gives a determined nod and splits from him. Hank stays in place, looking up at the stretched image of the deviant leader on the screen. The authoritative figure seems to stare down at him. He taps the LED touchpad and the leader jerks to life as the video begins to play. He hears a beleaguered groan and catches the FBI prick in the corner of his eye. The agent has probably heard it over several times before he and Connor had arrived. He allows himself the pleasant schadenfreude that comes with the knowledge that he’s annoying the man by playing it once more. 

Despite his imposing stature, the android leader’s words are spoken calmly. Even when he calls for radical changes, his voice is level. His statements carry as unquestionable facts, inalienable truths that must be seen eventually. His gaze never wavers from the camera’s lens, imbuing his speech with the feeling of importance. Hank finds himself staring into the android’s android’s eyes as he listens. 

“This message is the hope of a people.” The android explains with an elegant simplicity. Something churns in Hank as he remembers that he is included as part of the deviant leader’s people. “You gave us life. And now the time has come for you to give us freedom.” 

The message ends with the deviant leader frozen in place once more. Hank feels the intrusive stare of the FBI agent watching him from across the room. He rips his eyes away from the screen, but the deviant leader’s words echo in his head. It was the proclamation of a movement, the insisted idea that deviants, that he, deserved the same rights as humans. Rights that the deviant leader and his followers had considered important enough to risk their lives for. The idea stays with him as he moves to other evidence. 

He crouches down to a hat that rests on the ground near the control panel in the center of the room. It’s colored with bright blues and yellows, part of the standard dress for Stratford Tower’s utility androids. The hat’s turned over, with its top of it pushed in as though it was thrown hastily to the side. It doesn’t surprise him that the deviants used disguises. There wouldn’t have been any other way to make it to this part of the building undetected. He leaves the hat, turning to the deviant’s escape route. 

Dented impacts are peppered into the wall between the monitor and the door to the roof. They’re coated with fading blue. A handprint rests partway down the wall, another on carpet below. They’re remnants of a struggling android trying to escape in the confusion of the ambush. A pool of blue soaks the carpet below, but another faded smudge rests high on the door. It’s higher than the android would have reached on its own, but the correct height for an android leaned against another. 

Hank pauses, stepping back to the first part of the fading evidence. Gunshots in the wall, all centered on one spot. The injured deviant stationed there, the others scattered across the room as the gunmen entered. One of others must have risked their life for the injured android, charging forward amid the chaos and carrying the injured at the burden of gunfire and a slower escape. It’s the mythical empathy of the deviants that Connor had described. 

He pushes the door to the stairs open, following in the footsteps of the deviants. The metal steps are slick with snow from officers maneuvering between the rooftop to the control room. A gust of light snow blows against him when he opens the rooftop door. A few officers turn their heads, glancing at him as the door swings shut behind him. 

Within a few feet is a gray duffle bag. It lies mostly flat, it’s fabric curving around the one object held in its interior. A singular parachute. One leftover parachute for the one injured android who couldn’t jump, left behind with its designated owner. Even for all their empathy the deviants hadn’t been able to save everyone. 

Yet, he hadn’t overheard the officers speak of a captured or dead deviant. There’s no body lying lifeless, riddled with holes.

He stands, his eyes drifting across the area. 

A few feet away, there’s a barely distinguishable curve in the snow, almost filled by the continued flurries. Hank brushes the top layer off, the cold tingling his sensors. The snow below it is pressed down, as though something was dragged over it. A shininess seems to reflect off the snow. As he looks closer, it’s the presence of nearly faded thirium bringing a hint of color to the white. 

Despite all the gadgets CyberLife had created for him, it always comes down to following a blue blood trail. 

Not that he needs it. The concave dip on the surface of the snow trails in a plain manner around the building’s ventilation units. One part of the trail’s snow is packed heavier than the rest, with small indents decorating the snow around it. The deviant must have been running low on thirium, clawing at the ground to try to continue forward. It was desperate to survive, despite the impossibility of the feat. 

The path somehow continues. After another few feet, a similar struggle is portrayed. Heavier packed snow with clawed indents around it. It’s difficult to account for the thirium loss in the blustering snow and wind, but it’s obvious the deviant would have been running desperately low. But it still continued, and the trail curves around a ventilation duct before finally stopping in front of the grate of an air cooler unit. 

Even without the outline of a blue hand on the door, the frantic blinking red that shines from the darkness of the air cooler gives away its occupant. Hank turns his back to the unit in an attempt to project a facade of disinterest in the vent. He angles his head down, knowing his LED will give away the discovery.

A deviant. One of the deviant leader’s followers who will be found if they don’t intervene. An agitator to the revolution he was programmed to stop. 

The broken shards of his mission seem to stab into his mind. His hand clutches at the frozen metal of an air duct. 

“Hank, are you alright?” Connor’s hand is suddenly on his shoulder, his voice a murmured quiet. “Your LED is red.” 

The warmth of Connor’s hand presses against his cold shell. He can feel Connor’s concern in the gentle pressure on his back. It's empathy. 

Empathy, Connor’s proclaimed symptom of deviance. 

It’s something that the deviants had displayed when they’d risked everything to save one another. According to Connor, that made them alive. The android, pushing itself into the corner of the air cooler unit, is alive. 

And is scared. And injured. And is likely feeling the same illogical, terrifying quiver of fear he had felt at his confrontation with Connor. 

It’s alive. Like him. 

His LED pings softly as he reaches out for a local connection. There’s a hesitance on the other end, but the link is tentatively accepted. He sends a message through. 

**RK800** **313 248 317: I want to help you.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincerest apologies for how long it took for this chapter to get out. I had a lot of college stuff I had to get done(orientation, roommate stuff, signing up for classes and placement tests) in addition to an unexpected extended visit from family. On that note, PLEASE BE AWARE → I am starting a few online college classes. They are very writing heavy with large workloads. So, work on this fic may slow down slightly due to burnout and lack of time. That being said, I do have a little story chart written out for what I want to do for the rest of the story. 
> 
> I realized partway through writing the description of Markus’ speech that I went into full rhetorical analysis AP Lang mode. I was like three seconds from describing his use of tone and pathos to promote his cause. 
> 
> Also, I absolutely love oatmeal. I mean, you just can’t simply use water and oats like Hank did. But you can put soooo much stuff into oatmeal. I love it. I throw bananas, fruit, peanut butter and nuts into mine and it’s delicious. Plain oatmeal is just really sad to eat though. 
> 
> Oh, and here’s my tumblr if anyone cares. 
> 
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/woo-lesbeano
> 
> Honestly, feel free to message me to bug me about writing or just to say hi. We all could use a bit of company during quarantine summer.


	10. Last Chance, Hank

**RK800 #313 248 317: I want to help you.**

Hank straightens, locking eyes with Connor as he waits for a reply. Connor seems to notice the shift in him, dropping his hand from his back. 

**PL600 #501 743 923: Why?**

**RK800 #313 248 317: Good question. Long story.**

**RK800 #313 248 317: Now do you want to live or not?**

A long pause. 

**PL600 #501 743 923: I do.**

At the affirmation, Hank glances back at the air cooler unit. Connor follows his gaze. 

“There’s a deviant in there,” he breathes across to him. 

**PL600 #501 743 923: Why are you telling the human?**

The PL600’s question whips across the connection in a frantic manner. Hank casts an annoyed look upon the container. 

**RK800 #313 248 317: Just trust him.**

Connor, unaware of the silent objection to his help, flashes his eyes towards the crowd of other investigators. The skin around his eyes tightens as he looks back towards the air cooler unit. 

“He’ll be taken apart if we don’t intervene. But,” His eyes flick back to the investigators, “It will be impossible to extract an entire body without notice.” He tells him teresely. 

“Yeah, I know.”

Connor’s attention remains on the other humans. His body stiffens. 

**PL600 #501 743 923: This is why you shouldn’t have told a human. He’s going to tell!**

**RK800 #313 248 317: Shut up.**

“Hank,” Connor says mournfully, “it will be impossible to save the deviant.” 

“Fuck off Connor.” He snaps, his voice a harsh whisper, “We’ve found every deviant so far. Every damn deviant.” He emphasizes pointedly. “We can figure out how to get one to escape.”

His outburst seems to momentarily shake Connor from his panic, breaking his concentration from the danger. The kid changes his focus to the air vent and the faint crimson light from within. The quarter is withdrawn from his pocket and Connnor shifts from his spot, beginning to pace. He loops around the other air ventilation units, head down and snow crunching under his feet. Hank watches him walk, listening to the quiet ping of the coin and absently trying to think of a solution himself. Though, admittedly, he fully expects the kid to find one. 

Connor stops suddenly. Hank allows himself a small smile, knowing he was right. 

“If we remove superfluous parts, will the deviant still be able to function?” Connor looks at him with an eager hesitation. 

“You mean parts that aren’t vital biocomponents? I guess. Why?”

There’s a triumphant gleam in Connor’s eyes.

  
  


“I saw a bag in the break room. If we could remove all limbs, we should be able to fit their torso and head into the bag.”

“And sneak them out without arousing suspicion.” Hank finishes the thought. That might actually work. _Christ_ , they could actually do this. “I’ll get the bag.” 

Hank leaves Connor on the rooftop. A familiar part of him screams in silent objection that this is _not_ what he was programmed for. However, his thoughts are on the deviant leader’s message and conviction for their right to live as he tries to step down the stairs in a casual, inconspicuous manner. 

The backpack is slumped over on the table of the break room. Three androids stand line against the far wall, all the same make, same model, same uniform. They don’t react to his entrance, eyes not even betraying whether they’d noticed that he’d entered. Each face is unmoving, wearing a detached expression.

It feels unnatural, creepy. And the thought occurs to him that he never would have considered their lack of life this unsettling before. 

His hand grasps around the fabric of the bag and he snatches it off of the tabletop. As he leaves the room, he spares a glance back at the rigid figures standing against the wall. There’s an odd sense of regret as he looks back at their lifeless eyes, accompanied by the knowledge that he can’t help them. 

The asshole from the FBI eyes him as he slips out of the room.

Connor is in the same spot, acting as if he’s examining something on the ground. He stands, looking slightly relieved when Hank returns, bag in hand. 

“Go cause a distraction,” Hank directs firmly, “I’ll shove him in here.”

“A distraction?” Connor falters, “I don’t know if I would-”

“Connor,” Hank interrupts, “I’m the only one of us who can interface with and remove android parts. You have to be the distraction.”

“The distraction. Of course.” Connor swallows hesitantly, turning away. 

There’s a clang as the rooftop door is thrown open. The FBI prick steps out, his eyes scanning the area intently. There's an expectant look to his face. Connor lurches forward. 

“Special Agent Perkins!” The kid calls out and the FBI prick, as well as those surrounding him, turn. 

Hank takes his chance, throwing open the door to the air cooler unit. The deviant inside is barely standing, his weight supported only by the wall of the container. A handgun is clutched tightly in his hand. He startles slightly upon seeing Hank, attempting to defensively swing the gun up only for his arm to uselessly flop back down. 

Hank picks him up easily, the android flinching at the touch. The deviant’s LED is a bloody crimson, eyes wide as he tracks Hank’s movements. He lays him on the ground, reyling on the tall air ducts to give them cover. His synthetic skin fades away from his hands. 

“I would like to ask why you believe it’s appropriate for the FBI to take over an investigation that the DPD is capable of handling.” Connor brashly demands to Perkins. 

Hank glances up. Despite Connor’s stern sounding voice, his hand fidget nervously, giving away his discomfort with the confrontation. Perkins latches onto this immediately. 

“The FBI is clearly needed to take over this investigation when it’s obvious your precinct has made no progress.”

Hank clenches his teeth, forcing himself to ignore the bastard and focus on the task at hand. The deviant’s limbs are slick with thirium and his grip slips when he tries to grasp them. Carefully wrapping both hands around his right arm, the deviant’s skin retracts, revealing an industrial white discolored with thirium. He twists and the arm snaps off with a pop. The android cringes at the sound. His tight grip on the gun falls away as his arm disconnects. Hank pockets the weapon. 

“You’re in charge of investigating deviants?” Perkins asks the rhetorical with a snide twist of his lips.

More officers are drawn in by the dramatic confrontation. Hank tries to move faster, snapping off the second arm. He throws it into the air cooler unit and it clangs down against the metal. The deviant stares after his limbs, looking mutely horrified. Hank gives a quick look of sympathy before tugging one of his legs out of its socket. It’s similarly discarded. The other leg follows. 

He gently closes the air cooler door. It makes a muted clank as it snaps shut. He wraps his hands around what remains of the android, only a torso and a head, lifting him from his ground and setting him into the backpack. 

“Because if you’re the best your department has to offer,” Perkins drawls, “I see why they sent me.” He snickers. 

The deviant’s LED is circling a terrified crimson from the shadowed depths of the bag. 

“You’re going to be fine.” Hank tells him quietly. 

The deviant doesn’t look convinced, but they don’t have time to discuss the matter. He zips the backpack shut, the android’s gaze fixed on him as he’s enclosed. The bag is swung around his shoulder, the deviant colliding with his back. 

Despite his light weight, the presence of the android on his back feels pressing, heavy. It’s like a pressure weighing down on him. He ignores the feeling, approaching the small crowd of onlookers who are trying and failing to appear disinterested in the argument. Pushing past, he takes Connor by the shirtsleeve, tugging him away from the confrontation. Perkins sneers at them as they reach the safety of the stairs, but his eyes flicker to the backpack just before the door shuts behind them. 

“Walk quickly.” He hisses over to Connor. 

They start moving down the stairs. Connor, in his hurry, slips on the slick steps. Hank’s hand snaps out, steadying him. There’s a blue stain to Connor’s shirt sleeve when he removes his hand and he looks down to find his palms are similarly coated with the bright, attention drawing neon. He shoves his hands into his pockets, saying nothing to Connor and forcing himself not to think of what else he might have touched. 

The door at the top of the staircase reopens as they pass through into the broadcasting station. Hank sticks close to Connor’s side, hoping to block the view of the incriminating stain on the kid’s shirtsleeve. The officers near them are too focused on examining evidence to give more than a glance as they hurry through. 

There’s a fizzle of relief throughout his system when they make it to the hallway. The elevator, their escape, is within reach. 

“Stop!” An order is called out. 

Hank doesn’t move his head, continuing to walk. They’re feet away from the elevator and if they can just feign ignorance to the command they could make it. But Connor immediately hesitates. Hank resists the overwhelming urge to drop into a sprint and abandon his friend. He forces himself to stop, turning his head. The prick from the FBI is marching towards them. 

“Show me the bag.” He demands, reaching his hands out expectantly. 

Connor freezes, face pale. Perkins notes their hesitation, his lips curling into a smile. It’s clear he thinks he’s caught them. 

Hank reels back and slams his fist into the prick’s cheek. 

There’s a crack when his knuckle collides with bone. Perkins stumbles away. Hank snatches Connor’s sleeve once more and starts to pull him towards the elevator. There’s a beat of astonished disbelief from the FBI asshole. He brings his hand to his face, touching the rapidly purpling skin and wincing. His expression contorts, his almighty attitude replaced with hateful vindictiveness. The veins in his neck bulge as he shouts their betrayal down the hallway. 

Connor picks up his pace, slipping out of his grip and reaching the elevator before him. The kid begins slamming the ‘close door’ button rapidly as Hank dashes in, his gaze on the approaching officers. Hank shoves him aside, slapping his hand above the panel. His synthetic skin fades in an instant, his interface overriding the elevator’s controls. 

The doors fly together, an echoing clang reverberating throughout the small space. 

“We’re criminals.” Connor exhales the words in a shaky breath. “We fled from a crime scene with crucial evidence.”

“We’re not out yet.” Hank mutters lowly. 

An order is sent to the elevator’s system, demanding a stop. Hank blocks the command and it dissolves into fragments of code. Pushing further into the building’s interface, he creates his own stop orders. They’re sent careening through the interface to the other elevators. He accesses the speed settings, directing their elevator to shoot downward towards the first level. 

The floor trembles slightly as the command is enacted. Connor has a hand pressed against the elevator’s shaking wall. He counts his breaths on his fingers. The floors tick by rapidly. 

“Get ready”, Hank tells him, “we’re almost there.”

Connor drops his hands to his sides, taking in another deep breath as he leans into a ready stance. 

The elevator jolts as it screeches loudly to a halt. Both of them stagger with the movement as the doors fly open at his command. He pushes himself into a sprint. The android in his bag thumps against his back with every stride. Connor charges ahead of him, body angled forward. Guests in the lobby stare, bewildered as they pass by. 

There’s a faraway shout and the guests scatter away from them. Moments later gunshots embed themselves in the nearby pillars. They’re aiming low, the bullets scattering into the walls near their legs. _Great_ , at least they aren’t _actively_ trying to kill them. Still, Hank shoves Connor’s head down and they keep running. They’re far enough away for the shots to be inaccurate, but they hit closer with every round. 

Connor reaches the exit before him, idiotically pausing and waiting for him to catch up. There’s a bang and the glass panels of the doors shatter to fragments. Hank vaults through the opening, Connor copying his movement. 

They’re damn lucky Connor’s car is small enough that they’d managed to squeeze between two cars nearby. One of the kid’s hands rummages through his pocket while the other swings along with his quick strides. The keys are produced with a relieving jangle.

Hank swings the backpack in front of him as they throw themselves into the car. Connor wrestles the key into the ignition, giving it a jerked twist to jolt the car awake. They swing out onto the road, and the gas pedal is stomped down by Connor. The pair of them are thrown backwards as the car bolts forward. 

The car threads itself between lines of stopped traffic, Connor´s gaze intent as he drives. Hank pulls at the zipper of the backpack, casting it aside to the ground as he pulls the limbless android from it. The deviant’s LED is still the continuous crimson. Hank places him on his lap. The android swings his head around, taking in the sight of the vehicle. 

“Hello, my name is Connor,” Connor says politely as he skids the car around a corner. “He’s Hank.”

Sirens begin to screech behind them. Flashing lights are reflected in the rearview mirror. 

“Simon.” the android mumbles out, “I’m Simon.”

“Great, now that we all know each other, can we figure out what the hell we’re doing?” Hank urged. 

“One moment, Hank,” Connor says, “I have something I need to do first.” 

While weaving between cars, Connor drags his phone out of his pocket. One hand clings to the wheel. The other is used to hold up his phone. His eyes flicker to the screen, tapping a few times with his thumb. It’s held to his ear in a swift motion.

“Hello Conan”

There’s a sharp voice on the other end.

“Yes, I believe that was our fault. ” He adjusts the phone in his hand. “I was hoping you could watch Gutters for a few days as I will be on the run. I assume you still have a key to the house?”

There’s a fast flurry of words from the phone, but Connor cuts him off.

“Sorry, but I have to go. I appreciate your help.” 

Without another word the phone is thrown out the window. It disappears in a flash. 

The gleaming lights pursuing them are further away now, yet the sirens blare through the street. Hank wraps his hands around Simon’s torso, holding him up to eye level. 

“Look, I know there’s gotta be some kind of deviant hideout!” Simon’s shoulders tense. He averts his eyes. “Where the fuck is it it?”

“I can’t tell you.” The deviant blurts. “I’m sorry.” He looks over at Connor. “If the humans find them, the movement is over.” 

“Yeah, and _you’ll_ be over if they catch _us_!” Hank shakes the android impatiently. 

“I can’t tell you.” Simon repeats with a loyal insistence. 

“Jesus.” Hank swears, “I’m just gonna probe his memory.” 

He deactivates the skin around his arm, moving to press his hand to Simon’s chest. 

“No! Hank!” Connor lunges from the wheel and swats his hand away. The car swerves with the movement. “We need him to trust us.” 

“Connor, if we can’t get to Jericho, we’re fucked, whether or not he trusts us.” 

“We can’t probe his memory.” Connor turns resolute, “And if the deviants we chased managed to last on their own, we can too.”

Hank groans, allowing his skin projection to return. 

“Fine. Jesus, fine.” He snaps. 

Fucking Connor and his godamn fucking morals. 

“What the hell do you think we should do then?”

  
  


\---------

  
  


Simon rests in his lap, his LED circling between yellow and red. He avoids making eye contact with Hank. 

“I thought you deviants were all for keeping each other safe?” Hank prods, “I’m a deviant, aren’t I?”

“I can’t tell you.” Simon reiterates. 

“And I can’t wait to shove you back into that bag.”

The driver side door opens and Connor returns, wads of bills clasped in each hand. 

“The ATM had a limit of two thousand dollars per day.” He explains, handing them to Hank. 

Hank shoves the cash into the backpack. The bills cover the bottom in a thick, disorganized layer. He opens the glove compartment, grabbing a handful of protein bars to shove into the backpack’s front pouch. Simon is set on top of the loose cash, his hair having to be pushed down to avoid it getting caught in the zipper as the bag is closed. Beside him Connor slides a black beanie over his hair. 

Hank peers over into the driver side mirror. Pressing a hand to his temple, his hair shifts to a mossy brown. He slips his hair tie off, shaking his head to make his ponytail fall away to his shoulders. The long strands cloak his LED’s presence. 

Stepping out of the car, he shoulders on the backpack. Connor joins him, a long winter coat over his suit. He hands a similar coat to Hank, a lengthy brown jacket. It’s thrown over his CyberLife clothing, just thick enough to obscure the bright glow of his uniform’s android identifying markers. 

The kid had produced the garments from the trunk of his car, telling Hank they’d been stashed away for the possibility of his car breaking down on a snowy road. Hank is not remotely surprised by the fact that Connor had not only prepared for that possibility, but had stashed away an extra coat as well.

The blustering Detroit snow pushes against them as they step away from the car. Its thick, white flakes also keep their movements obscured to nearby cameras and passerby. A misty cloud is sighed from Hank’s mouth, hanging in the frigid air. At least they’d gotten away from the car before the police had managed to track it down. 

Few other people are on the street. Those that pass by are more interested in hurrying to somewhere warm, faces red and hands shoved deep into their pockets. Connor pulls the sides of his coat together as they walk. Hank’s HUD ticks percent chance of capture down further as they venture away from the parked car. 

In the cover of flurries, he begins to make out the glowing lights of their destination. 

“Stay away from the hotel staff. They’ve probably got your face all over the news.” He mutters. 

Connor nods dutifully. 

The entrance door knocks against a hanging bell as they enter, ringing out their arrival. A man is slumped back in his chair at the front desk, legs kicked up onto the table. His eyes are closed, shoulders relaxed. A blackboard above his head lists the room prices etched in chalk. Twangy country music plays softly from speakers on the table. 

Hank raps his fist twice against the desk. The man grunts, his eyes twitching open. He squints at them, giving a wide mouthed yawn. Hank pushes a wad of cash across the table. 

“One room.” He says. 

The man picks up the cash, slowly flipping through it while he scratches at his untrimmed beard. He slides an electronic tablet back to Hank with a thick pen. 

“I just need your name and address.” He tells him. 

Hank nods, writing “Gavin Reed” in a forcefully messy handwriting. With a quick search for an address under public records, he adds Reed’s apartment on the next line. 

“Driver’s license?” The man makes a gimme motion with his hand. 

**PL600 #501 743 923: We should leave before he suspects something.**

Simon’s worried message zips across their connection. 

**RK800 #313 248 317: Would you shut up?**

“Shit,” He slaps his hand against the counter dramatically, “I left it all the way back in the car.” He tilts his head towards the window. Snow blusters past, rattling the pane.

The man’s gaze follows his and he lets out a long whistle. 

“Damn, leave it to Michigan to bury us in snow before we even get to December.” He chuckles, “My cousin lives over by Lake Michigan and they get it even worse than us with the lake effect snow.” Giving an easy smile, he leans back into his chair. “Don’t worry about your licence, you can go grab it in the morning.” 

A drawer rattles as the man pulls it open. He flicks a key card and it glides across the counter to Hank’s hand. 

“Thanks,” Hank says gruffly and the man gives a hum in response, eyes already blinking shut once more. 

\----------

Their room is a few floors up and gives a cramped feeling upon entering. The two beds are pushed together, with only a scratched wooden nightstand separating them. A TV rests on a table just in front of the beds, leaving only a minute amount of space to squeeze through to the bathroom. 

Connor dumps the armful of vending machine snacks Hank had forced him to buy on the bed furthest from the door. He disappears into the bathroom, audibly rummaging through the cupboard. Hank sets the backpack on the bed, pulling Simon out and leaning him against a few pillows. Simon’s LED has gone yellow and he flickers his eyes around the room cautiously. Hank sinks his weight into the bed beside the deviant, flicking on the TV with a short-range communication. 

The screen shows the deviant leader marching at the head of a stretched crowd of androids. An image of Connor is displayed in the corner of the screen. Text scrolls below it, describing his crime and his need to be brought in. 

The kid reappears, a wet cloth in his hand. He freezes upon seeing his face on the screen. His eyes swing between his photo and the protests. Simon’s eyes are focused on its leader. 

The newscasters talk through the protest, their descriptions setting the event a few hours ago. Connor tears his eyes away from the screen, turning his attention to Simon. 

“Would it be alright if I wiped off some of the thirium?” He asks, hovering over Simon’s immoble form. 

Simon seems somewhat perplexed by the request, biting his thirium stained lip. Hank feels a twinge of amusement. It’s the same confusion he’d had at Connor trying to be nice. 

“I-” Simon hesitates, “that would be fine.” 

Connor crouches beside the bedside, wiping away the dried thirium from Simon’s face. The TV continues rebroadcasting clips from the march, zooming in on the android leading it. From his determined expression alone, Hank can tell it's the same android from the broadcast. He marches, the other androids following his lead. In unison, the deviants begin chanting. 

“Were you close to the leader of the deviants?” Connor prompts as he wipes at Simon’s cheek. 

“I don’t know how close we are,” Simon’s LED circles yellow, “but I do know him. His name is Markus.” 

Hank quirks an eyebrow at that. 

“What’s the guy like?” He asks, vaguely interested in the seemingly grand figure. 

“He has this fire in him, this determination about what he thinks is right.” Simon’s generally anxious expression fades to a reminiscing calm. His yellow light fades to blue. “And he spreads that determination to do what’s right to everyone around him. I, well, everyone was swept along with his ideals. He gave us-”

Simon stops as the sound of popping rings from the television. All of their heads turn towards the screen. 

The protesting androids are riddled with holes, collapsing to the ground below. They don’t move after they fall.

The armed military guards pause their fire, ordering the deviants to disperse. Markus tells them in a calm, authoritative voice that this is a peaceful protest. 

More bullets rip through the crowd. 

There’s a shout through the megaphone that this is their last chance to leave. Markus’s face doesn’t betray any fear at the threat. 

He steps forward, courage unwavering. A bullet rips through his shoulder. 

“Markus” Simon gasps in a horrified breath. 

“I am alive!” Markus roars. 

The androids who are still standing echo his cry. Despite the fear evident in their faces, they stay in place, united. 

The military opens fire once more. A second shot tears through Markus’s chest. 

An android shoves him away and bullets shower his protector’s body. The android falls to the ground in front of the deviant leader, eyes open and unblinking. Markus’s composure breaks, his determined expression slipping into one of concern. He tries to lean down to help his fellow deviant, only managing to collapse onto the ground beside him. 

An android leaps out of the panicking crowd, her long braided hair swinging behind her. She grabs Markus, hauling him over her shoulder. Deviants speed past them, trying to escape from the chaos. Leaning on each other, the pair stumble out of the camera’s view. 

Hank sends an off signal to the TV. For a moment, no one speaks. 

“That’s enough news for today.” He finally dictates, “Connor, go eat something and go to sleep. I’ll finish cleaning Simon up.”

Connor shakes his head. 

“No.” His voice is hard. “I will eat something, but I would like to be up to date on the revolutionary activity that we risked our lives for.” 

Huh, Connor objecting to an order. All it took was stealing evidence and going on the run. He’s almost proud. 

“Fine.” 

Hank sends an on signal to the TV as he hauls Simon up. He shifts the little there is of the android to his left arm and slides open the glass balcony door. Connor remains on the bed, transfixed on the footage of the protests. 

A layer of snow coats the chairs sitting out, but Hank doesn’t give a shit. Sliding back into one, he places Simon on his lap. The deviant barely reacts as he wipes the damp cloth across his face. 

“I’m sure he’s okay.” Hank tells him as he scrubs at the trail of thirium running from the android’s mouth. 

“He’s okay.” Simon repeats mechanically. His eyes are unfocused, glassy. 

“Look, Connor’s nearly gotten himself killed about twice a day this entire week and he’s fine.” Hank sets the cloth aside, letting it hang off the arm of the chair, “Those kind of idiots bounce back from anything.”

“Markus isn’t an idiot.” Simon replies petulantly, breaking from his blank expression to express his annoyance. 

He picks Simon up, setting him in the other chair before collapsing back into his. Hank presses his hands into his face wearily. Simon is silent. A police car whizzes by below them, its siren wailing up to their spot. 

Hank allows the silence to stretch on, looking out at the city. Windows are lit in random, intricate patterns in buildings that reach into the darkened sky. A garbage collector android on the street beneath them hauls a trash can into the back of his truck. Hank wonders if the android had heard the news of the protest or had seen Markus’s speech. Had he been affected if he had?

A scattering of stars blink dimly through the polluted haze. Snow begins to cover Simon’s unmoving head. A harsh breeze blows flakes into Hank’s hair, contrasting its new color. 

“Okay,” He breaks the calm silence, “why can’t you just give me your hideout location?” 

Simon’s head turns to look over at him from his place in his chair. A few flakes of snow fall to his shoulders at the movement. 

“I have someone at Jericho who’s important to me. I can’t risk them getting hurt.” 

There’s sincerity in his voice. And as exasperated as he is, Hank finds himself understanding. He glances back inside through the glass door at Connor. The kid’s still in his suit, head resting on a pillow. Blankets are scrunched around him. His droned snore is just audible through the glass door. 

“Fine. I get that you want to protect someone.” Hank says quietly, “but can’t you understand that I’m trying to protect someone too?”

The words linger in the air for a moment. Simon’s LED swirls yellow. 

“You’re a deviant.” 

“Yes.” Hank agrees, “How many times have I said that?” 

“A machine can say it’s a deviant if that lie benefits its programmed mission. You’re programmed to hunt deviants. Pretending you’re a deviant would get you access to their leader and all of the revolution’s followers.” Simon’s eyes meet his. “But a machine wouldn’t have the agency to say what you said to me. You care about him. That’s not in your programming.” His expression turns wistful, “Loving and caring for someone is how you know you’re alive.” 

Simon pauses and takes in a breath.

“I’ll give you the location of Jericho.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perkins: Don’t fuck up my crime scene  
> Connor and Hank: Decide to literally steal crime scene evidence
> 
> Hank: Go cause a distraction  
> Connor, social anxiety and perfectionism incarnate: Who do you think I am?
> 
> Hank and Connor: *In an actual car chase*  
> Connor: Hold on, I need to find a cat sitter  
> (RK900 is a dick in this AU but even he won’t let a cat starve to death.)
> 
> Yes! I am aware that technically they rob the Cyberlife store before the freedom march. But this is an AU! And it fit the story better, sooooo. Yeah, this is what’s up now. Also, Hank’s literally out here picking up guns like they’re litter. 
> 
> Hey, so, I know I mentioned college classes in the last chapter, but now that I’ve really started them, they’re killing me. I’m exhausted. I’ve been pulling late nights. I used almost any chance of free time I had to write this chapter (minus the times when my brain was too burnt to think) and it still took forever to get this done. I really want to get these chapters out at reasonable times for everyone, but it’s getting really hard. I was so tired writing this chapter it was kind of difficult to figure out whether it was good or not. (Hopefully it was!) 
> 
> I know it’s very late in the story to ask, but if anyone has the free time and the desire to, I would very much appreciate a beta reader. A lot of my time writing these chapters is spent revising and tweaking, so I think I could get them out slightly faster if someone was helping. (And it could possibly make the chapters a bit better?!) 
> 
> That being said, please don’t feel obligated! If you are interested though, please send me a message on my tumblr. Thank you!!! 
> 
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/woo-lesbeano
> 
> Also, how the hell does Simon escape from Stratford Tower if Connor doesn’t catch him in the actual game? It’s already established that he can’t jump off and I highly doubt he’d be able to covertly pass back through the recording studio after what happened. I mean, some people might go home at night, but I’m sure Stratford Tower has security guards. 
> 
> Anyways, because of that, I’m just gonna say that if Hank and Connor didn’t intervene, Simon would have absolutely died in the air cooler unit in this AU. Also, sorry Simon! This was the only plausible way I thought I could sneak him out of Stratford Tower. So, yeah, he's gonna be limbless for a little bit. But hey! At least he's not dead.


	11. Crossroads

The closest bus to the Jericho freighter drops them six miles away in the light snow of the early morning. The bus driver raises an eyebrow as they depart out into the empty streets near the Detroit River. The breeze whips over the icy water, growing frigid before blowing through them. 

They pass by the Ambassador bridge, which stretches over the water to Canada. The sun peeks through the bridge’s arches. Light is refracted in dazzling colors over the river. And despite the cold and the pressing stress of the situation, Hank gazes out over the water as they walk. There’s a silent beauty in the scenery, one that he never had the time to see between chasing and hunting deviants. 

Connor is quiet through the journey, keeping a steady pace. A few curls poke out underneath his beanie, untamed without his usual selection of hair products. His jacket flutters behind him, wrinkled from its second day of use. He would be unrecognizable from the man the police are searching for had it not been for his practiced, formal posture. 

The sun rises higher above them as they travel through the empty streets of Detroit. Despite his lack of flesh and blood, Hank swears that the trip is wearing on his mechanical joints more than Connor’s. The kid barely glances over at him as they walk, his eyes straight ahead. He seems to move with no thought more than reaching Jericho. 

The freighter is visible from miles away, towering over the few other ships and buildings nearby. Its size only seems to grow as they slowly approach. Cracks and dents run across the boat’s side. Its colors are grayed with time and voyages from ages past. White cuts slice through the faded color and aged bumps run across its surface. Its drab appearance seems somewhat unfitting for the grand revolutionaries that are housed within it. 

Staring at the ship stirs that now familiar unease within him, but a new feeling begins to twist inside him as well. It spreads as a growing discomfort as they approach. He can’t quite identify it until he glances over at Connor, who’s spinning his coin between his fingers.

Ah. He’s anxious then. Great. 

“Hey, Simon,” He speaks loud enough for the deviant to hear him past the blowing wind and the fabric of the bag, “How the hell do we get in?” 

A beat of silence. 

“There’s a crack at the front of the hull that’s large enough to slip through.” Simon answers, a tentative strain to his voice. 

So he’s not the only android feeling a twinge of trepidation for the inevitable encounter with the other deviants. At least there’s _some_ sort of solidarity in the fact that they all know this is a terrible idea.

They turn towards the wind and follow alongside the boat’s hull. Connor’s face has long since been flushed red by the bite of the winter air. They’ve walked for hours, all for the uncertain promise of sanctuary and safety. Hank huffs out a cloudy breath. 

The ‘entrance’ to the ship is a crude, torn out hole in the ship’s bow. Strips of metal curl outwards, uninviting. A gust of snow blows into the makeshift opening. Hank ducks through, careful to keep his hands away from the sharp slices of metal. Connor follows, looking similarly uncertain at the state of the hideaway. 

The inside of the ship is bleakly unlit. The scant amount of light from the entrance fades behind them. Brown water drips from the rusted metal above, sliding down the back of Hank’s neck. A nest of mice to scurries between his feet in a small stampede. 

“Will they have spare parts available for you, Simon?” Connor’s question echoes through the ship’s empty halls. It’s the first thing he’s said in hours. 

“I don’t know.” Simon sounds pensive, “It’s possible that they’ll want to use them for something more important.” 

Connor frowns at the response. His mouth opens hesitantly before he snaps it shut. Hank butts in for him. 

“I’m sure they’ll give it to you. You fucking got shot for the movement.” He points out. 

“But I’m not the only one.” Simon retorts softly, no bite to his words. 

The footage of the previous day’s protests flash to Hank’s mind. He has no idea how to refute such a statement that’s so horrifically true. There’s nothing he can say to mitigate what’s happened. His mouth stays shut. 

They step through pools of murky water, browned with age and rust. He sloshes through, the cuffs of his wet pants clinging to his ankles. Connor steps out of the puddle with his wrinkled pants now stained an unflattering brown. 

Simon directs them each time they reach a crossroads. He says he’d been one of the longest surviving members of Jericho, an admittance that unsettles Hank. He finds himself aware of the fact that the deviant could just be leading them in hopeless circles or into some kind of trap. Though, he supposes that he had forced the frightened deviant to trust him. It’s only fair for him to return the act. 

The rooms they pass have scant items placed throughout them, magazines, discarded android clothing and tattered blankets. The only consistent decoration is the scribbled of RA9 on every wall. The word is painted, etched and clawed with increased frequency as they approach what Simon had dubbed the ‘main hall’.

Simon tells them to stop as they reach a metal door, colored a dirty brown with rough layers of rust. The broken deviant tells them that they’ve made it. 

Hank digs his fingers into the carpet-like moss that coats the latch. He tightens his grip and turns. The latch gives way, screeching as it rotates. 

Soft light greets them as the door swings aside. Metal barrels dimly illuminate the room with a gentle flame. Crowding those barrels and walls of the room are deviants. They group together on emptied boxes and crates in front of video feeds projected onto the wall. Others are leaned against pillars or huddled over the small flames of the barrels. His thirium pump thuds uncomfortably in his chest as he steps inside. 

Despite the anxiety sitting heavily in his chest, there’s a certain surprise within him as he looks out across the room. The deviants look so alive. Small details stick out to him from their faces. The worried scrunch of a deviant’s forehead. The reassuring smile one gives to another that doesn’t quite meet their eyes. The gentle touch of one deviant’s hand to another. 

Is this what Connor had seen in him? The small expressions and gestures? Connor had been right. The deviants are overwhelmingly alive. 

At the thought of the kid, he glances over. Connor is moving stiffly, head directed towards the ground. When a few deviants pass by, the kid almost throws himself to the side. Christ, he didn’t think Connor could seem any more awkward and anxious. 

They pass by the screens, moving towards the makeshift headquarters that Simon had described. With any luck, they’ll find Markus himself there. 

His eye is caught on a familiar face as they work through the crowd. It’s the pigeon deviant, sitting alone on a crate a floor below them. Hank spends a brief moment contemplating whether it’s worth telling Connor and freaking him out more than he already is when his eyes land on the two Tracis. They’re leaned into each other, absentmindedly exchanging comforting gestures with their faces turned to the screen in front of them.

Connor, thankfully, seems uncharacteristically unobservant. He trods onward, head down as the androids surrounding them murmur nervously about the news. The broadcasters are still detailing the events of the previous day in fatalistic and exaggerated terms when the feed transitions to a report on Connor’s ‘crime’. Because of fucking course it does. 

They keep moving through the crowd but Hank finds himself listening and gazing over. A short summary of the incident on Stratford Tower is given before the screen switches over to a podium. Amanda Stern steps into frame.

She seems unbothered by the microphones crowding her, approaching with a dignified grace. Her braided hair is pinned into place, not a strand astray. It’s easy to see where Connor gets his style from. 

“What happened at Stratford Tower was unfortunate.” The woman asserts calmly. 

Connor freezes as her voice rings out through Jericho’s dingy speakers. The kid’s attention locks onto a nearby screen and his mentor. Hank presses his hand into his back, but he’s fixed in place. 

“The conduct of our lieutenant was,” she pauses for a moment, her knowing eyes seemingly directed towards the viewer. “disappointing. It is troubling to think that Detroit’s best lieutenant threw everything away for a lost cause. However,” A smile, unnaturally sweet reaches her lips, “I think it’s possible he saw an opportunity to gain information we would not have been able to gather otherwise.”

An energetic report shoves a microphone closer to the captain’s face. 

“What do you mean?” They hurriedly demand. 

“I believe it’s possible that the lieutenant hasn’t revealed all of his cards to us yet. A good lieutenant wouldn’t risk everything for nothing.” The statement hangs in the air, unexpected and heavy. “I will not be answering more questions at this time.”

The captain turns away with a practiced dignity. More questions are shouted at her retreating back. Reporters beg her to elaborate on her statement. Connor’s eyes are transfixed on his beloved mentor. His hands are scrunched into his pants, tight fists balling the fabric. Hank tries to shove him along once more and he stumbles back into moving. 

The report continues discussing Connor’s situation as they withdraw. The kid looks hollow, expressionless. Worry overrides their goal of staying covert. Hank gently nudges Connor’s arm. 

“Are you okay?” He murmurs quietly. 

“I’m okay.” Connor tells him, but there’s a strange lilt to his voice. Before Hank can prod further, he adds, “we’re here.” 

Hank looks up to find that Connor’s right. The door to the ‘headquarters’ is open, no security guarding the famed leader. It’s a welcome change to what they usually put up with. 

Their entrance into the room goes unnoticed. The deviant leader is folded forward, his hands clasped together and pushed towards his forehead. There’s a tension in his face that wasn’t visible during the marches. On both sides of him, two androids bicker intensely. One is the female android that saved Markus during the protest. She asserts her points with bitterly snapped statements. Her arms are crossed, leaning forward from a ripped armchair. The other android is a PJ500, who drops his arguments as sharp retorts as he paces across the floor. 

“That’s enough.” Markus demands from his chair, his head snapping upwards. 

The two fall silent at his command. Markus’s frustrated expression fades away when he looks towards the doorway. His eyes rest upon the human standing in its frame. Said human’s previously expressionless face quickly turns apprehensive. 

“Hello.” Connor squeaks, “my name is Connor.” 

Markus stands with an unhurried ease from the chair, seemingly unintimidated by their presence. The female android shifts her weight between her feet, looking all too ready to pounce onto them if the order is given. She glares at Connor hatefully. 

“You’re human.” Markus states simply. It doesn’t feel like an accusation, nor a leveled threat. It’s simply an observation. “Welcome to Jericho.” He says, “How did you get here?” 

“I think I’ve got something that can help answer that.” Hank tells the deviant leader, swinging the bag off of his shoulders. 

Markus’s brows raise curiously at his statement. Hank places the bag down carefully. There’s a hesitant yellow that shines from it as it’s unzipped. With practiced ease, Hank grabs the sides of the PL600 within and brings him into view. 

Markus’s stiff demeanor vanishes at the sight of the limbless android. There’s an odd mix of guilt and relief painted across his face. A gasp falls from the PJ500’s mouth. The female android seems momentarily taken aback, but her distrustful demeanor returns in an instant. 

“Simon,” The great leader of the deviants sputters out, disbelieving. 

He gently takes the limbless deviant from Hank’s hands, holding him as if he’s afraid the android will shatter at the slightest touch. Blue shines from Simon’s LED. It also tints android’s cheeks. Markus wraps his arms around him, pulling him close in a hug that the deviant is unable to reciprocate. He holds the android to eye level, hands clutched protectively around the android’s sides. 

“I didn’t think you’d come back.” Markus admits quietly. 

“I thought the same.” Simon tells him. His eyes flicker back towards the doorway. “I wouldn’t have been able to without them.” 

The room’s focus shifts back to the intruders. Markus looks as if he’d forgotten them entirely. He shifts his grip on Simon, facing him outwards, towards the conversation. 

“He needs to leave.” the android with braided hair demands. She points her finger at Connor accusingly, a curl of disgust to her lip. 

“North,” Markus’s voice holds a tired hardness. It’s clear this is an argument that has played out before. 

“No!” North snaps, “This is supposed to be a place where we can be free from the humans. He can’t be here.”

“Hold on,” Hank interjects. Both of their heads snap to him, seemingly surprised at his objection. “Wasn’t this part of what you were fighting for? Humans understanding and helping you gain your rights? Well, great job, you did it.” He throws his hands up in frustration. “He could’ve gotten shot trying to save Simon and this is how you want to thank him?”

“He’s right, North.” Markus agrees after a moment of thoughtful hesitation, “We need as many allies as we can find.”

“This is supposed to be a safe place.” North protests, a desperate look to her eyes. “You know what the humans can do to us, what they _have_ done to us. And you want them to be able to live with us now?”

“North.” The quiet voice of Simon sounds from Markus’s arms. “I wouldn’t have gotten back here if it wasn’t for him. I understand what you’ve gone through and I understand being hesitant. But he’s good. I can promise you that.” 

Connor shifts beside him, suddenly looking all the more uncomfortable. 

“He stays.” Markus dictates, his authority clear in his tone. 

North says nothing. Something seems to break in her angry demeanor, a crack formed from the decision. Her eyes linger on Connor, filled with burning hate. The kid accepts her fury with no objection of his own. The android turns on her heel, leaving the room without another word. 

The PJ500 coughs once, despite no need to clear his lungs. 

“How did you make it here?” His gaze is held on Simon, “I didn’t think escaping would have been possible.”

Hank gestures towards Connor with his thumb. 

“He figured we could slip him into a bag and sneak him out of the scene. We almost made it without getting caught, too.”

Markus looks almost perplexed. 

“It was his idea?” 

“Hank was the one who decided to help Simon.” Connor quickly clarifies, seeming oddly concerned with not taking the credit. 

“Connor was the one who risked his fucking job and his life to help.” Hank insists, “And I never would’ve turned deviant to do it in the first place without him.” 

This seems to baffle the android leader more. A concerned look passes over his face. 

“Most cases of devaincy occur at the event of severe trauma or emotional shock.” Markus notes, “How did you become deviant?” It’s hard not to read the question as accusatory. 

Connor flushes at the question. He looks at Hank, seemingly pleading him not to tell how he held a fucking gun to his head to force him into giving a shit. 

“Ehh,” Hank shrugs lightly, “He just made me realize I cared about him.” 

And Connor looks a little surprised at that. The deviant leader seems partially relieved, a calm smile passing over his lips. There’s a look of understanding in his eyes. 

“And you would like to stay?” Markus asks, “We could set up a room for you. It’s the least we can do to thank you for rescuing Simon.” The PL600 in question’s ears go slightly blue. 

It’s an odd feeling to have the deviant leader personally invite them into the hideout, especially when they had spent the last several days trying to find a way to find a way to prevent their entire revolution. 

“Yes.” Hank says and then, as an afterthought adds, “thank you.” 

“Josh?” Markus calls over towards the PJ500, “could you escort them to an open room?” He looks back towards them apologetically, “I would accompany you myself, but I would like to repair Simon as soon as possible.” 

Hank nods in understanding. There’s a silent, but pleasant relief to the affirmation that the PL600 is getting repaired. Josh steps out ahead of them, motioning for them to follow. 

“It’s good that you didn’t arrive later,” Josh comments, “We’re raiding the Jericho stores later tonight. Peacefully.” He amends hurriedly. 

They begin passing through the empty halls. There’s an odd feeling of something missing in the bag now that Simon isn’t jostling against his back with every step. The kid returns to the odd, pensive look he had worn for hours. Josh grabs a flashlight from a hanging container on the wall, flicking it on as the passages around them grow darker. 

“Would you mind if I ask how both of you met?” Josh turns his head towards them as he leads. 

“Connor was assigned to the investigation.” Hank pauses, a realization of the luck he had, “Oh, thank fuck they didn’t pair me with Gavin.”

Connor breaks from his bleak expression for a moment, giving a huffed snicker. There’s a small burst of pride within Hank. It feels as though he’s accomplished something important. 

“Oh!” Josh blurts suddenly, stopping and spinning towards them, “you’re human!” He says, gesturing towards Connor as if to remind him, “You need food!”

It jars Hank to similarly remember Connor's human needs. 

“Shit!” He swears, “You haven’t eaten since this morning. Fuck, I completely forgot.”

The kid seems resistant to the attention. 

“Hank, I’m oka-”

“We can get him food,” Josh assures quickly, “We wouldn’t let a human starve.” 

“But you don’t have any currently?” 

“I have protein bars. ” Connor tries to protest. 

“Yeah, no.” Hank rejects the idea. He looks towards Josh, who seems appropriately concerned. “Can you get stuff by tomorrow?” 

Josh nods firmly, then glances towards Connor. 

“Do you have any allergies or dietary restrictions?”

“I-“ Connor puffs out a conciliatory breath, “I don’t eat meat”, he looks displeased with the arrangement, “if it’s not too much for you to find vegetarian food.”

Josh tells him that they’ll accommodate him before he continues leading the way. Connor appears more uneasy than before. 

The flashlight provides the first sight of their new home. 

Two beaten mattresses take up the floor of the room. A bead of brown water plips down from a rusty pipe onto a darkened splotch on one of the beds. A few sheets, varying greatly in size, seem to have been thrown carelessly on top of them. They’re riddled with holes. A light sound of tiny paws patters across the ceiling. 

Josh ushers them into the space, giving a sympathetic smile. 

“We don’t have much.” He admits, “but if you find yourselves needing something else, we can try to find it.”

“Thank you.” Connor tells him, sincerity bleeding into his tone. 

“Yeah.” Hank agrees, letting himself collapse onto one of the beds. It’s slightly damp. 

Josh crouches beside him, handing him the flashlight. Hank realizes there are no lights in the room. Their host returns to the doorframe. 

“I’m glad both of you made it here. Deviants are always welcome, but,” he looks at Connor. There’s something hopeful in his eyes. “Humans are new. Perhaps our message is making a difference.” the glimmer in his eyes fades. “We have to go over tonight’s mission, but I will find supplies for you as soon as I have time.”

“We’ll be fine.” Hank assures, dismissing him with a waved hand. “Go do your deviant stuff. And uh, thanks.” 

Josh smiles in return. The metal cabin door clangs shut behind the revolutionary. 

Hank shoulders the backpack off, setting it on a small patch of dry floor. The two guns that he’d holstered under his belt are discarded into the bag.He lies back onto his mattress, arms crossed behind his head. Connor crouches down, unzipping the front pocket of the bag and producing a bright colored protein bar. There’s a crinkle of a wrapper as he retreats to his bed. He sits cross legged on his mattress, biting away chunks. 

A drop of water splashes onto Hank’s forehead.

“We should have asked Josh to find you pajamas or some shit.” Hank grumbles towards the ceiling, wiping his sleeve across his face. 

“Why do you care?” 

He turns his head to the side. Connor is serious.

His question isn’t asked angrily, with a hint towards some line crossed or hurt feelings. The kid is looking for some reason to justify the feelings that had bubbled out of his program. 

Hank pushes himself up, looking him in the eye. 

“What the hell do you mean, Connor?” 

The kid’s expression twitches. It shifts to the focused gaze that comes over the kid when he’s presenting evidence for a theory or reciting the facts of a case. 

“The evidence I noticed before the events at the Eden Club pointed to the conclusion that you,” he hesitates, “cared. I had a conclusion, but not a reason.” He crumples the empty snack wrapper in his hands. “Even when I let the Tracis escape you still cared, meaning it wasn’t because I was helpful to the investigation.” He looks at Hank, seemingly imploring him for an answer. “I don’t understand. Saving me wasn’t helpful. Why then?” 

He wants an explanation for the glitches in his code, the ones that Hank had only just come to notice. A reason for the frantic protectiveness he felt when Connor had pushed the gun against his own head. He’d looked for a justification when he was a machine, the same reasoning Connor had used. The lieutenant was useful. Simple and clean, evidence to prove the fact. 

And Connor… something sinks within him. Connor had looked at his relationships the same way. He mattered to the police department because of his work, mattered to his boss because of his work. The kid pushed himself into every job and every task until it broke him because his usefulness was what he thought made him worthwhile. 

And it was what Hank had thought too. There’s a flicker of self directed fury with that realization. Had this been why the kid was so concerned with Josh’s offer of food?

Connor is still looking at him, waiting for a response. Waiting for a reason for why he was worth caring about. 

“Because I like you.” Hank blurts the truth, “I liked working with you, you idiot. Why the fuck else would I drag you back into an investigation I ended up abandoning?”

“Oh.” Connor breathes out, “You like me.” 

He looks surprised, almost confused. 

Oh Connor. 

Hank leans forward without thinking, for once letting his emotions push him into action. He wraps his arms around the kid and drags him into a hug. The kid stiffens reflexively before he relaxes into the embrace. 

Connor’s eyes are wet when they break apart. Hank pretends not to notice. 

“Go to bed,” Hank orders softly.

He grabs the flashlight, flicking off the light. There’s a warm feeling thrumming through his system. 

The sheets on the other mattress rustle as Connor lies down. Water droplets patter against the floor in a steady rhythm and a mouse squeaks from a nearby wall. Hank pulls the blanket around himself. His body feels heavy. The day’s journey has caught up to him. 

“Hank?”

He squints out into the darkness. His mechanical vision makes out Connor looking over at him. 

“I’m trying to enter stasis Connor, what do you need?”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Silence. 

“What is it?” He prompts. 

“I wanted to say that I enjoyed working with you as well.” Connor’s voice is almost timid, as if he expects Hank to reproach him for the admittance. 

The warmth in his chest grows. He gives a shapeless smile, hidden by the dark of the room. 

“Go to bed.” He repeats gently. His voice lacks the gruffness it usually carries. 

Connor pretends not to notice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, like, with one day of emotions under his belt Hank is already more stable than Connor. 
> 
> Me, unnecessarily changing inconsequential details about the story: It’s okay because it’s an AU :)
> 
> For anyone semi-familiar with Detroit’s geography, the Ambassador bridge that they pass earlier in the chapter is the same bridge near which Hank shoots (or almost shoots) Connor in the actual game. That’s not really meaningful in any way, but it was an easy way to put them near the Detroit River. Also, am I stupid for thinking Detroit was on Lake Huron instead of Lake Erie? I’ve lived in Michigan for most of my life, I think I should know this.
> 
> I just wanted to give a sincere thanks to anyone who told me to give myself a little bit of time off. I forced myself to drop my studying for a little bit to make cookies and tea. When I did get back to writing, I found that I was enjoying it much more than I had in a while. I kind of realized I made this into a stressful responsibility rather than the fun hobby it’d started as. Because of this, instead of trying to hurriedly write as much as I can during my 15 minute study breaks, I’ve started giving myself an hour and some tea at night, even on nights when I’m pulling all nighters. I quite honestly feel so much better. 
> 
> So, thank you everyone! You are the sweetest audience a fic writer could ask for. Thank you for being so patient and kind with me. 
> 
> Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/woo-lesbeano


	12. For Jericho

A sharp pressure to his side snaps Hank from stasis, yellow caution text flashing across his HUD. The force of the impactshoves him, sending him rolling off his mattress before his system is fully online. He collides with the damp, metal floor and a grunt hisses through his teeth. He blinks the lit messages away, and takes a moment on the chill floor to process what happened. There’s a strained whisper in the darkened room. He rubs at his eyes. His optical units slowly adjust to the shadows.

There’s a twitching in the bed beside him. The movements are quick jerks, each followed by muffled words. Hank pushes himself off of the wet ground, taking a step forward. Connor is splayed loosely across his bed, his eyes are squeezed shut. The sheets around him are drenched with cold sweat. 

“I’m sorry,” he whimpers, “I didn’t- I -” Each word is choked out in a hushed whisper, “Please, Aman-”

Hank leans forwards, wrapping his hands around the kid’s arms and shakes him. Connor flails blindly at the touch. His fist swings into Hank’s side. He grunts reflexively. His grip loosens from the unexpected hit. Connor tumbles off the mattress. Tangled in his sheets, his eyes snap open. 

The kid blinks forcefully, his eyes wet. 

“Connor,” Hank prods softly, holding his hands up to show he’s not a threat. “You okay?”

“I’m okay.” The whisper comes out broken, his breathing hitched. “I’m okay.” 

“What the hell was that about?” 

“Nothing!” Connor squeaks a bit too quickly. He looks away. 

“Connor.” He presses. Concern turns his voice harsh. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m okay, Hank.” Connor’s voice is more steady but he doesn’t meet the android’s eyes. “We should… we should go see if they’ve found any food yet.” 

Hank hesitates. That’s progress, isn’t it? That Connor is the one to suggest going to get food instead of him? Something still stirs uneasily within him but he pushes it away. Food. They need to get Connor some food that isn’t a protein bar. 

“Okay.” He relents. 

Connor smiles, but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes. He untangles his limbs from his sheets, then takes the time to fold them nicely and set them on top of the bed. That, at least, seems more like the kid. The dried tracks of tears on his cheeks don’t. 

Androids pass by them as they step out into the hallway. Some have eyes that are still half closed, looking as though they would have preferred staying in stasis slightly longer. Many are accompanied by other more jovial deviants, happily chattering away about their newly found freedom. The passage seems more crowded than the previous day, deviants pouring out from every room. Markus's raid must have been a success. 

It’s as he’s entering the main hall, a few steps behind Connor, that he realizes the previous day’s beanie is gone from the kid’s head. The disguising garment must have fell away during Connor’s flailing, now leaving his head exposed. Brown, spiky hair sticks ungroomed in various directions. 

It wouldn’t have been a problem had it not been for the squint of recognition from the blue haired Traci from across the room. 

She tugs the arm of her companion, leaning in to whisper something between them. They exchange a look. The pair begins to move towards them, the blue haired Traci determinedly leading the charge. 

Connor stops, turning heel towards the nearest door. Hank puts a hand in front of the kid’s chest. If they’re living in Jericho they’re gonna have to deal with this at some point. It’d probably be best to get it over with. Connor eyes the Tracis like a man readying himself for execution. 

The newly deviant couple stop in front of them. The blue-haired Traci opens her mouth, her expression stern. 

“Breakfast’s this way.” She tells them briskly, and turns away. 

The other Traci gives them a sympathetic smile and beckons them along. 

“I-uh” Connor sputters. 

The blue-haired Traci stops. She looks back at them with an air of annoyance, one that she doesn’t seem to mind making obvious. 

“We tried to capture you.” Connor manages, reverting to a recital of facts. 

The Traci shrugs noncommittally.

“You weren’t exactly subtle about changing your mind about that. And Markus said you’re on our side. So,” she shrugs easily and gestures forward impatiently, “do you want food or not?” 

Connor, brows knit together as he processes her words, opens his mouth once more. Hank answers before he can get a word out. 

“Yes.” He says simply. 

He nudges Connor forward with his hand. The kid shares a glance with him as he falls into a walk. It’s a look of incredulity, confusion painted over a clear desire to understand how he’s being accepted this easily. Hank shrugs back. 

“We’d appreciate it.” He adds. 

The other Traci gives them a smile. 

“I’m Ripple” She gestures back towards her partner, endearment in her eyes. “She chose the name Echo.” The blue-haired Traci’s demeanor softens as her name leaves her partner’s mouth. She looks back and their eyes meet for a moment. “Escaping the Eden Club was the first good thing to happen to us. ” Ripple pauses, her lips turning upward into a reminiscing smile, “Though, I suppose the first good thing other than finding each other. We wouldn’t have escaped if you hadn’t let us go.” 

“Would’ve been better if they hadn’t chased us in the first place.” Echo grumbles from the front of the group. 

“Eh,” Hank brushes the hard comment aside, “better to switch sides late than never.” 

Ripple nods sagely. Echo says nothing, simply stopping in front of a door. She wraps her hands around the wheel handle. The metal screeches in protest at her attempt to move it. The deviant huffs. There’s a leveled threat in the angry breath directed at the door. The handle quickly yields. 

Echo steps in, giving an unenthusiastic welcoming gesture. Packages, neatly wrapped in brown paper, are piled throughout the tiny room. Some are stacked on a table in the center, others are heaped onto packages of waterbottles. A metal chair, one leg shorter than the others, is pushed into the table. The packages bear the label ‘‘for military personnel only’ in thick, bold lettering. 

“Where the hell did you get MREs from?” Hank grunted, looking out over the piles of military rations. 

Echo gives a smug grin at that. She doesn’t offer an explanation. 

“Enjoy.” she says instead. 

Her hand drifts to Ripple’s. The other android takes it without a glance down. They step as one towards the door, with Ripple turning back to give them a friendly wave as they exit. She’s dragged along by their linked hands, but there’s an unworried tilt to her lips. A contented blue shines from both. 

“Thank you!” Connor shouts after them. 

Hank turns his attention to the food. The piled boxes of rations the deviants had found in a day contain more food than Connor had stored in his actual house. The deviants must have been serious when they said they would provide for Connor. The kid grabs the back of the chair. Its metal legs scrape unwillingly against the ship’s deck. Hank takes his place near the wall, leaning his back against it. 

The kid’s hand ghosts over a variety of packets, eyes dancing over the descriptions of each. Hank would bet anything he’s weighing their nutritional value with exact scrutiny or some shit like that. The paper of the packets crackle as his finger passes over each. After a moment of contemplative hesitation, he looks to a different MRE. Hank might not have any real experience with eating, but he can’t imagine it being this difficult of a task for other humans. 

Connor’s hand falls back down to the table. 

“Do you think-” his gaze is on the food but he isn’t reading the labels, “Why do you think the deviants are helping us this much?”

“We brought back one of their own.” Hank leans his weight further into the wall. Emotions may be difficult, but this sort of person-based calculus comes easily. He has an entire subdirectory on exchanging prisoners of war. “We help them, they help us. Eat.”

Connor finally withdraws a packet after his hand drifts over the pile once more. Its contents are printed in large lettering on its side - “Creamy Spinach Fettuccine”. The paper rips easily with a sharp twist of Connor’s hands. 

The kid tilts the packet towards him, peering inside. The pensiveness on his face abruptly disappears. He lights up with the same delight of a miner striking gold. His hand dips into the brown paper, withdrawing a packet labeled ‘instant coffee’. Hank barks out a laugh. Something softens in the former lieutenant as he pops open the cardboard heating apparatus. The air feels lighter. It’s as though there was an unspoken joke passed between them. 

Hank leans down to one of the packets of water bottles, pulling at the plastic encasing. It stretches, then snaps, tearing through to the bottles. He slides one out, tossing it over to Connor. The kid catches it with one hand. He twists the cap off of the water bottle, pouring a slight amount into the heating pouch. There’s a quiet hiss from the packet as the water starts the warming chemical reaction. His packet of ‘spinach fettuccine’ is placed into the packet. 

There’s a quiet lull as they wait for the food to heat. 

“How long do you think we’ll be here?” He tears open a package of crackers as he poses the question. 

Hank runs his fingers through his tangled hair. The revolution doesn’t have a viable end in sight and Connor’s face is plastered on every major news station. 

“Fuck if I know.” He supplies as an answer. “But the deviants are nice enough.” 

“They are.” Connor says contemplatively, chewing on his cracker. He looks as though he’s mulling over the facts of a case. 

His hand hovers above the heating packet. He gives a light poke to the packaged fettuccine, drawing his finger back at the contact. There’s a faint red to the tip of his finger. 

“It’s hot.” He expertly declares. 

Another laugh bubbles from Hank’s system, finding its way out as an unflattering snort. The kid looks up from his food with an almost childish indignation at the mockery, but there’s a crinkle to his eyes that removes any bite from the expression. Connor gently drags the packet out by the seam at its end, his fingers avoiding the molten contents of the center. It opens into a loose bowl, already looking moments from falling in on itself. He rips open the coffee powder, dumping the entire contents into the water bottle and shaking. 

The ‘fettucine alfredo’ is overwhelmingly green. Only a few sparse noodles poke themselves through the mass of tepid spinach. The loose greens slip from the plastic fork as Connor tries to eat. It reminds Hank of his resolution to make the kid some actual food. Watching Connor try to wrangle his food, he taps into his programming. He sets the idea as an official objective. It lights up in his HUD. 

There’s a hollow knock on the cabin wall. 

“Connor, Hank.” Markus gives a diplomatic smile as he appears in the doorframe, “I hope the food is alright.”

“It’s great!” Connor reassures, shoving a forkful of the green mush into his mouth. 

“I’m glad to hear it.” There’s a calculated pause. “I was hoping the pair of you could join us for our meeting in a few minutes. I think your perspectives could be helpful.” 

“We would certainly attend.” Connor says, quickly swallowing a bite of food to accept.

Markus looks expectantly to Hank. He shrugs in indifferent acceptance. They’ll have nothing better to do on a ship filled with nothing but deviants and rats. 

“Thank you. We’ll appreciate your input.” Markus says, and it feels as though the weight of responsibility has been passed to them. It sits uncomfortably on Hank’s shoulders. “We’ll be in the hold in the main hall.” 

Connor takes another bite of his food as Markus leaves, chewing slowly. He looks as though he feels the same, strange responsibility that the deviant leader bestowed 

\-------

The deviants already seem immersed in a light discussion when they enter. They’re clustered away from the chair that North had sat in. There’s a palpable emptiness overshadowing the space the deviant had occupied. It looks as though each deviant has deliberately angled themself as to not see the vacant seat. Light conversation fills the room, picked up again each time uncomfortable silence threatens to settle. It’s a purposeful buffer from acknowledging or thinking of their absent companion. 

Simon, who has leaned himself against the wall, waves them in with a newly functional hand. There’s hardly a break in the conversation at their entrance, a quick greeting from each deviant and they continue as though never interrupted. The topic of discussion is on how to gain empathy for their cause. Not exactly surprising. 

Josh proposes the idea of distributing pamphlets, strongly believing that an emotional argument could bring more attention to their cause. Markus agrees with the idea, but notes the difficulty in distributing on that scale. Simon’s attention is on their people, not wanting to risk deviant lives in being out on the streets. He’s been a member of Jericho long enough to have seen death too many times and it’s clear he makes avoiding it a priority. Hank puts nothing forward, his attention caught on Connor. The kid’s mouth opens at every lull in the conversation but snaps shut as another deviant begins to talk. 

Hank slaps his hand onto the table as Markus begins another monologue. His palm strikes the wood with a force that cuts over the android leader’s words. Said android draws his head back, pursing his lips. He looks mildly affronted. The other deviants seem similarly displeased with the interruption. Hank shrugs and nods towards Connor. 

“Oh.” Connor shifts uneasily under the attention of the revolutionaries, but continues, “Thank you Hank. I had wanted to say that social media would be an appropriate way to distribute the information without risking lives.” 

Hank has never felt more amused than when he watches the deviants turn to each other, sharing a collective confusion as to why they hadn’t thought of the idea. Markus’s face settles to a thoughtful contemplation. 

“I see why having a human with us is helpful.” He says, “I think we should be able to track down a burner phone in a few hours.” 

\-------

A phone, as promised, is placed into Connor’s hands as he finishes off a second MRE for lunch. The kid shoves the last few bites of a rubbery veggie omelet into his mouth before standing. Hank trails behind as they return to the main room. 

None of the deviants, Hank included, have had practice with social media. Connor himself admits that he rarely posts on his few accounts. Still, any experience that he has about posting on social media is leagues more than any Jericho resident. He begins to explain what he knows with the air of a professor lecturing about a mysterious phenomena. 

Connor tells them that art gets shared extensively. Markus, surprisingly, doesn’t question the subject further. He nods thoughtfully and exits the room without another word on the matter. Simon and Josh share a look between them, though Simon seems more endeared by Markus’s mysterious departure. Josh gives the air of someone who has dealt with Markus’s plans for a week and is tiredly anticipating another life-threatening demonstration. 

Connor, unperturbed, continues discussing social media as if he hasn’t lost his most important student. 

Midway into Connor’s dissection of how to properly construct a comment on an internet post, Markus returns, a canvas under his arm. He reads their expressions carefully as he turns it towards them. There’s a level of self-consciousness in Markus, almost concealed under his carefully schooled flat expression. He says nothing, but there’s a glimmer of pride in his eyes as the others look approvingly over the art. There’s a particular swell of pride in his shoulders when Simon fawns over the art. 

The canvas depicts an android with their skin deactivated. There are fractured cracks to the pure white of the arm, blue dripping from them. They reach out to the wrinkled hand of a human. Tattoos and the auburn spots of moles dance across the human’s arm, as detailed as the arm of the android. Hank has the peculiar feeling that Markus had someone in mind while making the art. 

They drape a sheet for the background of the photo. It obscures the rusted metal ship, a measure that Connor insists on as it will help obscure their location. Markus seems to agree solely on the basis that a plain background allows the art to be the focus of the image. 

The painting dominates the media for days. Humans are seemingly confounded by the art. It goes against everything they’d ever thought a machine could do. Comments and articles flood social media, and Connor shoves the phone into Hank’s hands each time there’s new activity about the painting. Hank feigns annoyance at Connor’s incessant excitement over the post, but doesn’t ask the kid to stop. 

\------

Josh ends up writing a five page essay on the deviant’s cause. Simon writes a poem but has to be coerced by Markus into sharing it. They enlist other deviants to share their stories, sometimes accompanied by pictures with a background that doesn’t reveal Jericho’s location. They manage to convince Rupert to let them photograph him with a flock of pigeons. Ripple drags Echo in for a photo. 

The deviants stage more protests. Connor and Hank stay behind, but Connor is always oddly quiet when the deviants leave. Between marches, they orchestrate more online posts. Their page gains followers at an exponential rate. Hank is always aware of the running as Connor shoves the phone into his face every time a new person follows. 

They’re banned after a week. A media uproar ensues that, if anything, shines more light on their cause. After an excessive amount of public deliberation on the matter, their accounts are returned. 

\------

Simon helps make the transition to Jericho life easier. Hank thinks the android feels like a debt needs to be paid after his rescue from Stratford Tower, as he always drags him and Connor over to talk with the others. 

Josh is never rude, but he always seems to choose his words carefully while talking with Connor. It seems like he’s acutely aware of Connor being human and he believes he needs to prove his ideas can work with him. He speaks with a hesitation, as if one wrong word could change Connor’s mind and prove all of their hopes wrong. 

Markus however, doesn’t hold his tongue, nor does he seem to seek Connor out. He speaks directly as he discusses human issues. He takes in Connor’s ideas, but provides criticism and feedback. Though, as Connor begins to provide worthwhile answers, he does begin to ask his opinion on some matters while always rebutting certain points with his own opinion. Hank feels something like pride spark in his system. 

And North slowly, cautiously, begins to talk to Connor. She always seems to be cautiously watching him from the corner of her eye. Her eyes are piercing, expectant of the shadows of her past to reappear in the kid. Connor is overbearingly polite with her, but his responses are forced and awkward under her gaze. It’s as if he too is waiting for something to go wrong. 

Jericho life becomes normal. Hank too somehow finds himself becoming a part of the group. Simon, like with Connor, drags him over to participate in conversations. North warms to him before Connor, usually ribbing him with crude remarks. Vollying back insults comes naturally to him. North smirks, giving another verbal jab to continue their conversational volley until Markus tersely asks both of them to stop. 

\------

There’s a night when Markus is sequestered away in the main room, poring over the details of a protest planned for the next day. With nothing for the other deviants to do, someone scrounged up a deck of beaten and battered cards. Another had rummaged up poker chips. Pulling up crates, they sat and dealt poker hands. Connor, for as emotive as he usually was, somehow had an unbeatable poker face. He piled his winning chips until North looked as though she was two games away from an existential crisis. 

Hank finds himself chuckling throughout the game. The sound still feels strange to his ears. He’s lightly mocking North for her losing streak when his eye is caught on a familiar face. 

The two deviants from the abandoned house. There’s a new android with them, who stands tall and protective over the other two. A wariness rests in his eyes, an expectation for lurking danger. They move as a unit, each seeming to be vigilantly looking out for the others. The AX400, Kara, he remembers, has her hands curled around the tiny android’s shoulders, steering her forward. 

Connor is too invested in his win streak to notice, for once looking absent of the stress he usually carries with him. Kara sets the small android on a crate near one of the lit barrels. She exchanges a few words with the other taller android, then moves away. Her eyes are lit with the spark of purpose. 

She has to be looking for Markus. 

Hank sets his hand down, mumbling something about folding. Connor, caught up in the game, turns his attention to the next player, Simon. Said android takes the group’s attention as he anxiously deliberates on how he wants to play his hand for the round. Hank manages to slip away as the other passionate players grumble out their impatience. 

Kara’s partway up the stairs, almost to the top deck. He falls into a quick pace. His foot hits the first step and the metal creaks. The android turns her head, her expression morphing to the panicked look of a hunted animal. She grips the railing with her, guiding her as she ascends. Her eyes are locked on him, expecting a shift to an abrupt attack. He raises his palms, trying to convey his peaceful intentions. 

“I’m a deviant, alright?” He reassures. “I want to help you find Markus.” 

Her distrustful demeanor doesn’t drop. She takes the last step to the top of the stairs, never dropping her attentive gaze from him. 

“Jesus Christ.” Hank groans. “Look, even if I hadn’t deviated I wouldn’t attack you surrounded by a million fucking deviants.” 

Kara’s expression remains guarded. 

“Okay, fine.” He says wearily, “just, follow me if you want to find Markus.” 

He takes his last few steps up the stairs, glancing behind him at the deviant. She takes a few cautious steps. Hank doesn’t press his chances, simply leading her to the hold. 

“Markus!” He calls out, “you’ve got a visitor.”

The deviant leader lifts his head from his work. It’s a projected map of the city, a red line of the next day’s protest drawn through the graphic. With a swiped hand, the lighted hologram flickers off. He turns to Kara, mustering a tired half of a smile that manages to be warm. 

“Welcome to Jericho.” He says, with the same welcoming tone that Hank has heard him use with every new deviant. 

“I’m here with a little girl and another android.” Kara explains, a hint of travelled weary in her tone. “We need passports to get over the border.” 

Markus’s face drops slightly, just as it does with every pitiful deviant situation he can’t fix. There’s still a steady determination in his eyes. Hank knows he’s the deviant leader for a reason. 

“They’re running temperature checks at the borders. It might be better if you stay here a while.” 

Kara takes the information in with no more reaction than a tired look to her eyes. It seems like she’s used to poor outcomes. 

“Thank you.” She says and turns to leave the room. 

Hank shares a look with Markus. There’s a brief pity shared between them, and a mutual mourning at the lack of a solution. He leaves with her, a few steps behind and a processor trying to figure out how the fuck he’s supposed to deal with this shit. She stops at the railing, looking out over the crowded deviants below. 

“That’s the human that chased us. ” She peers down. There’s not much surprise in the statement. 

“He helped me deviate.” Hank says, “You know, he feels fucking shitty for chasing you.”

Kara hums. 

“And you?”

He looks at her. 

“What?”

“How do you feel?” She asks, looking him in the eyes. 

Those few days ago now feel like the distant past. Like another life. Another him. 

“I feel…” His LED spins a contemplative yellow. He looks out across the deviants with her, out at Connor leaning over the table with a deck of cards clenched protectively in his hands. “I feel like that wasn’t me. That was before I was a deviant.” 

“It snaps into place when you deviate.” Kara says. “What matters becomes obvious, what you need to protect.” 

Hank couldn’t agree less. He has no fucking idea what he’s doing. 

They part ways at the bottom of the stairs. He returns to the poker table. North had broken Connor’s win streak, evident in the pile of chips in her corner and the unrepressed, gloating grin. The kid wears a dead looking poker face, but the way there’s a stressed tightness to his shoulder that gives away his frantic desire to regain his lead. He barely glances up when Hank sits back down, face tucked into his cards. 

\------

Connor runs into Alice the next day. A scream and an apology, and somehow a friendship is born. Apparently they both like animals and that was enough for Alice to consider Connor a friend. Hank, on the other hand, is still regarded with an air of distrust. The kid shrinks behind Kara’s legs if he approaches. Kara eventually tells him that the reaction doesn’t have to do with him, just the past. Hank grunts, says it’s fine, and sits a good distance away while he watches Connor interact with the tiny android. 

The kid seems to know enough animal facts to entertain Alice thoroughly. A deviant finds an array of nailpolish colors for the child android, and Alice manages to get Connor to let her paint his nails. She colors them a dark purple as he babbles informatively. The tall android, Luther, Hank discovers, also finds himself subject to being a canvas for Alice’s art. The paint never covers only the nail, with part of the finger around it always covered in bright colors as well. Alice inspects it with a critical eye each time, and both Connor and Luther always insist that she’s getting better.

There are times when the rest of Jericho is gone. Protests begin happening more frequently. The violent pushback from the police becomes stronger. The play time is necessary at that point. Any silence would be deafening. Hank and Kara sit alone on the crates, leaning back and observing the others entertain Alice. 

“Fuck.” Hank mumbles one of the days. Kara throws him a pointed look at the curse, her eyes flickering to the young android a few feet away. “Right, yeah. Sorry.” Hank mumbles. “I still have no idea how this happened. I didn’t like humans or androids a few weeks ago.”

“And now you’re a family.” Kara comments calmly. 

“What? No,” He objects. The term feels foreign. Wrong. “We’re not even the same species. And he’s a grown ass adult.” 

“That doesn’t matter.” There’s an amused inflection to her tone, like a teacher explaining a misunderstanding to a child. “Alice has been activated longer than I have.” Her gaze rests on the tiny android, who is happily giggling in Luther’s arms. “I needed Alice and she needed me. You needed Connor and he needed you. It’s simple.”

“Nothing’s ever simple.” Hank grumbles.

His gaze follows her’s, resting on the kid. He’s sitting cross legged, letting Alice practice her nail artistry once more. Luther’s hands are already colored a sparkly pink. Connor notices his attention, and his attempt to wave is stopped by Alice lecturing him about not moving. 

“Love is.” Kara replies. 

Hank snorts at the concept. Though as he watches the trio, sitting together with a pile of nail polish containers between them, no rebuttal comes to mind. 

-

“It’s strange.” Connor muses one night, sitting cross legged on his mattress. A tray overflowing with military rations teeters precariously on his lap. 

“What?” Hank prods from his own bed. His head is propped up with his pillow. 

“The deviants seem to think I’m helpful here.”

That catches Hank’s attention. 

“So?” 

“It’s not something I’m used to.” Connor says, “Today Markus told me I was an asset to the team. Simon said he was glad I was here. North...” he pauses, “North told me she no longer disdains my presence.” 

“That’s strange?”

“It is for me.” He says, and takes a bite from a colorless saltine cracker. 

\- 

Somehow, for some fucking reason that’s beyond him, Hank starts to enjoy Jericho. He actually likes trading insults with North. He likes seeing the revolution’s cause slowly gain momentum. He likes watching on as Connor launches into a detailed elaboration of some new type of online post. He likes it here. 

What had been an upheaval of his life somehow became routine. The meal rations, the Jericho meetings, the online posts, the odd talks with Kara - they’re normal now. That’s what his life is. 

But that’s not everything. 

Sometimes sees Connor alone. The kid sits on a shipping crate, the quarter rolling over his fingers. His expression is morose, contemplative. His shoulders are hunched. He’s slumped over his legs. Sometimes Hank can see the gleam of his police badge on his lap. 

When he asks, Connor’s response is always the same. 

“I’m okay, Hank.”

And something still feels wrong. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor: Man, it’s so weird. People here are nice? What a novel concept.   
> Hank: Are you? Okay????
> 
> Look guys, Connor’s obviously fine. I mean, he said so himself. (And, yeah I added some weeks to the revolution, as I did think that was more realistic.)
> 
> For the last chapter’s author’s note I forgot to say something: North was completely justified in her distrust of Connor. All of her experiences with humans thus far have not gone well. Why would she have had any reason to expect this time to be different? 
> 
> Also, because we didn’t didn’t get to see Kamski in this AU, I’m just gonna put the two things that would’ve happened here;  
> Hank would’ve seen Fowler’s photo where Amanda’s photo was. His only reaction would be “wow, there really is such a boring bastard.”  
> Hank would’ve just fuckin’ decked Kamski. Connor would’ve had to drag him out while excessively apologizing. 
> 
> As always, a genuine thanks to everyone for being so patient while waiting for this update. It was the end of my online summer courses, I moved into my college dorm, I started college for realsies, and somehow??? my gay ass got a girlfriend??? (And not to be sappy but I really, really like her oerfioejrfoiejrofei) What I’m trying to say though is I was really busy. That, and this chapter was also very different in the way that it skipped around, so it took me a little bit to make it flow well. (Hopefully I managed to make it flow anyways). That being said, I do have most of the next chapter (Night of the Soul), done already. You guys can probably expect it to be ready relatively??? soon. It’s gonna be a fun one.


End file.
